[UNIV.  OF  CAIIF.  LTORAKY.  T  OS  ANGELES 


REDEMPTION 


BOOKS    BY    RENE    BAZIN 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


The  Nan .  $1.00 

(L'l8ol<5e) 

The  Coining  Harvest SI. 25 

(Le  Ble"  qui  Lfeve) 

Redemption    .  $1.25 

(De  toute  son  Ame) 


REDEMPTION 

("DE  TOUTE  SON  AME") 


BY 

RENfi   BAZIN 


TRANSLATED  BY 

DR.  A.  S.  RAPPOPORT 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1908 


REDEMPTION. 


CHAPTER  I. 


IT  was  closing  time  at  Ville-en-Bois;  men  and 
women  were  trooping  out  of  the  factories  and 
workshops,  their  hands  and  faces  discoloured  with 
smoke,  and  with  clinging  particles  of  iron,  brass, 
tan,  and  the  dust  that  swirled  continuously  around 
the  pulleys  in  motion.  The  more  dilatory  clocks 
had  not  yet  sounded  the  last  stroke  of  seven. 
The  month  of  May  was  drawing  to  its  close,  and 
a  warm  softness  filled  the  evening  air.  Work  was 
over:  the  roar  of  the  machinery  was  gradually 
subsiding;  the  spiral  clouds  of  coal  dust  above 
the  brick  chimneys  were  growing  less;  voices 
began  to  be  heard  between  the  walls  of  the  Rue 
de  la  Hautiere,  and  those  of  the  old  road  to 
Coueron,  as  well  as  in  the  higher  quarter  of  Nantes 
where  the  town  adjoined  Chantenay. 

There  was  something  impressive  in  this  hour  of 
the  day,  when  toil  let  loose  her  army  of  workers 
on  the  streets.  Recruits,  veterans,  women  mar- 
ried and  unmarried,  and  dwarfed  figures  whom 
one  would  have  thought  ten  years  old  at  most,  if 
the  tone  of  their  voices,  and  the  precocious  per- 

i 


2  REDEMPTION 

versity  of  their  language,  had  not  revealed  their 
manhood — these  once  outside  the  factory  doors 
went  their  several  ways,  uphill  or  downhill,  and 
along  side  cuts,  to  the  home  or  lodging  where 
shelter  and  soup  awaited  them.  The  crowd  sepa- 
rated by  degrees  into  groups.  Wives  rejoined 
their  husbands,  brothers,  or  lovers,  and  fellow- 
lodgers  leisurely  sought  each  other  out,  evincing 
no  particular  sign  of  pleasure  when  at  last  they 
met.  Something  sad  and  weary  dulled  the  bright- 
ness of  their  glance,  even  among  the  younger 
workers;  the  burden  of  the  day  weighed  heavily 
on  all  alike,  and  hunger  was  uppermost  in  each. 
An  occasional  dull  coarse  remark,  a  spiritless  joke, 
or  a  hasty  good-night,  was  all  that  passed  between 
them.  Yet  still  among  them  could  be  seen,  here 
and  there,  the  rosy  cheeks  of  a  young  girl,  or  the 
beardless  and  characterless  face  of  a  Breton  youth 
from  Auray  or  Quimper  who  had  so  far  escaped 
the  contamination  of  the  workshop;  the  uplifted 
eyes  of  one  who  passed  along,  as  in  a  dream ;  aged 
men,  rugged  as  old  soldiers,  walking  in  silence, 
leading  little  children  by  the  hand,  in  a  mute  and 
weary  happiness.  The  wind  from  the  distant  sea 
was  blowing  across  the  waters  of  the  Loire;  over 
the  tops  of  the  walls,  bunches  of  lilac  hung  down 
at  intervals  above  the  heads  of  the  dun-coloured 
procession  of  workers. 

The  married  members  of  this  population  of 
workers,  and  those  who  lived  with  their  families, 
leaving  the  others  to  distribute  themselves  about 
the  lower  quarters  of  the  town,  took  the  road 
which  led  upward  to  the  hills  of  Chantenay, 


REDEMPTION  3 

whence  similar  groups  were  descending  toward 
Nantes.  In  the  midst  of  these  cross  currents  of 
blouses,  jackets,  and  badly  fitting  cotton  bodices 
on  the  top  of  shabby  skirts,  a  man,  evidently  of  a 
better  class,  had  drawn  up  his  dog-cart  where  the 
road  of  la  Hautiere  began  to  descend.  He  was 
tall,  his  face,  though  young,  was  already  begin- 
ning to  fill  out,  a  pointed  black  beard  adding 
somewhat  to  its  length.  He  was  dressed  in  a  well- 
cut  suit  of  ordinary  cloth ;  this  and  his  manner  of 
handling  the  reins,  together  with  the  good  taste 
displayed  in  the  harness  and  the  sober  panelling 
of  the  cart,  betokened  a  family  which  had  been 
well-to-do  for  fifteen  or  twenty  years  at  least. 
What  could  have  brought  this  young  man  among 
a  crowd  of  factory  hands  whom  those  of  his  class, 
as  a  rule,  were  only  too  glad  if  possible  to  avoid, 
although  they  might  have  found  it  difficult  to 
explain  the  reason  for  their  dislike?  He  could 
easily  have  taken  one  of  the  quieter  side  roads; 
but  no,  there  he  sat,  leaning  forward  a  little  on 
the  blue  cloth  cushion  with  gloved  hands,  the 
whip  laid  across  the  slackened  reins,  looking  fix- 
edly ahead  down  the  steep  narrow  street.  The 
men  and  women  stared  at  him  as  they  passed, 
some  with  surly  looks,  others  with  indifference; 
only  now  and  then  a  hat  was  raised  with  a  show 
of  reluctance,  while  the  women,  with  their  un- 
covered heads,  pointed  their  fingers  at  him  and 
then  bent  forward  and  laughed  in  malicious  envy 
of  the  shining  buckles  and  glittering  harness  which 
attracted  their  gaze.  But  the  object  of  these 
attentions  watched  the  passing  stream  of  figures 


4  REDEMPTION 

with  the  impassive  countenance  of  the  master 
who  has  grown  familiar  with  crowds.  Only  a 
quick  eye  could  have  detected  the  slight  shade  of 
pity  and  of  sadness  that  flitted  across  the  calm, 
unmoved  face,  when  some  of  those  who  passed 
close  to  his  carriage  wheels,  pointedly  abstained 
from  saluting  him,  or  turned  to  those  behind, 
saying,  "It's  Lemarie''s  son!"  The  news  ran  like 
an  electric  shock  along  the  road  that  was  dark  with 
moving  figures;  it  was  passed  from  one  to  another, 
and  then  back  again,  and  whispered  in  every  vari- 
ety of  tone  of  astonishment,  of  indifference,  or  of 
smothered  anger.  ' '  Lemarie* 's  son !  Lemarie's  son ! ' ' 

The  man  himself  was  evidently  looking  for 
some  one.  Suddenly  the  hand  which  held  the 
whip  went  up  and  made  a  sign.  A  young  man 
about  twenty  years  old,  walking  up  the  hill,  arm 
in  arm  with  two  others  of  his  own  age,  turned  his 
head  toward  him.  His  companions,  with  a 
barely  intentional  insolence,  playfully  tried  to 
hold  him  back,  but  he  escaped  from  their  grasp, 
and  going  up  to  the  side  of  the  dog-cart,  touched 
his  old  felt  hat.  His  keen  gray  eyes,  with  their 
shifting  colour,  had  caught  those  of  his  master's 
son  as  the  latter  signed  to  him  to  approach,  and 
he  now  stood  waiting  and  looking  up  with  his 
weasel-like  face,  barred  on  either  side  with  short, 
straight  whiskers,  a  face  full  of  eager  alertness,  on 
which  was  reflected  the  agitation  of  an  ever-surging 
passion,  of  which  the  billows  seemed  continually  to 
be  rising  and  falling  within  the  depths  of  his  eyes. 

"Is  your  uncle  any  better,  Antoine?"  asked  M. 
Lemarie,  in  a  quiet  voice. 


REDEMPTION  5 

"No,  he  is  not  getting  on  at  all." 

"His  hand  is  as  bad  as  ever?  Has  he  tried  the 
remedies  my  mother  sent  him?" 

"He  cries  out  at  times  during  the  night.  And 
then  the  trembling  fits  disturb  him." 

"Poor  man!" 

"Yes,  indeed!  Remedies — of  what  use  are 
they  to  a  man,  when  his  hand  has  been  crushed  to 
pieces?  No  one  believes  that  he  will  ever  have  the 
use  of  it  again.  It's  a  farce  to  talk  of  remedies. 
He  ought  to  have  his  pension,  Monsieur  Lemarie." 

A  troubled  expression  came  into  the  latter's 
face,  and  he  continued  to  look  before  him  down 
the  road,  as  he  answered : 

"What  would  you  have?  He  had  better  try 
again,  but  let  him  go  himself!  And  mind,  above 
all,  no  letter,  no  foolish  threats!  That  sort  of 
thing  does  not  answer  with  my  father,  as  you 
know  well  enough,  Antoine." 

"He  will  go,  you  may  be  sure  of  that,"  replied 
the  young  man,  as  his  lips  straightened  in  a  bitter 
laugh.  "He  will  go,  and  be  hustled  out  of  the 
house  as  I  was.  And  yet  he  has  worked  in  the 
factory  for  thirty  years.  You  owe  him  a  good 
share  of  your  horses  and  carriages." 

Victor  Lemarie,  seeing  that  Antoine's  friends 
were  listening,  lifted  his  gloved  hand  and  made 
a  sign  to  him  to  go  on. 

"You  forget,"  he  said,  coldly,  "that  for  thirty 
years  my  father  has  provided  him  with  the  means 
of  living.  I  only  wished  to  ask  after  Madiot;  as 
regards  other  matters,  I  am  not  the  master." 

The  man  walked  on  a  step  or  two  and  then 


6  REDEMPTION 

returned,  this  time  half  lifting  his  hat.  "And 
what  if  you  were  that  master,  Monsieur  Lemarie"?" 

Victor  Lemarie'  pretended  not  to  hear,  and 
again  looked  down  at  the  road  up  which  some 
scattered  groups  of  men  and  women  might  still 
be  seen  climbing.  Clouds  of  dust  were  now  rising 
above  the  trampled  highway,  turning  to  golden 
haze  as  the  rays  of  the  sun,  which  had  sunk  to  the 
level  of  the  house-tops,  shot  through  them. 

The  man  waited  a  second  to  see  if  his  master's 
son  would  answer  him,  or  if  he  would  whip  up  his 
horse,  then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  was  soon 
lost  again  among  the  mass  of  his  companions  who 
had  already  gone  on  ahead,  and  who  were  being 
continually  pressed  forward  by  others  coming  up 
from  below. 

By  this  time  the  weary  line  of  figures  was  be- 
ginning to  look  grayer  and  more  mournful  even 
than  at  first,  in  the  declining  light  of  day.  Victor 
Lemarie  was  no  longer  on  the  lookout  for  any  one 
in  particular;  he  sat  gazing  abstractedly  at  the 
passing  throng  of  men  and  women,  all  strangers 
to  him,  all  alike,  who  followed  one  another  at 
regular  intervals,  like  the  links  of  a  chain.  He 
was  not  a  bad-hearted  man,  and  both  his  feelings 
and  his  self-love  were  wounded  by  the  conscious 
sense  of  the  proximity  of  so  much  unmerited  ill- 
feeling  toward  him.  It  seemed  to  enfold  him,  to 
hold  him  in  a  grip  of  pain.  He  still  sat  upright 
and  immovable,  apparently  wrapped  in  contem- 
plation of  some  distant  scene,  so  that  many  seeing 
him  turned  to  look  back  toward  the  lower  road, 
where  the  factory  stood;  but  it  was  on  no  par- 


REDEMPTION  7 

ticular  figure  or  object  that  his  gaze  was  fixed; 
the  multitude  of  human  beings  that  passed  before 
him  formed  but  a  single  image  to  his  eyes :  that  of 
a  gray  mass  with  one  face  and  one  name — the 
factory  worker — who  brushed  past  him,  and  went 
on,  conscious  of  two  feelings  alone,  the  weariness 
of  toil  and  hatred  of  the  rich. 

"What  have  I  done  to  them?"  he  thought; 
"why  should  they  extend  their  enmity  to  me, 
who  am  not  their  employer,  and  who  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  my  father's  work-people?  One  of 
the  things  that  has  reconciled  me  to  taking  no 
part  in  the  active  life  of  the  factory,  was  the  false 
belief  that  I  should  thus  escape  their  distrust. 
And  instead  they  treat  me  as  if  I  was  their  born 
enemy.  What  a  hideous  conflict  it  is  that  thus 
separates  us  into  two  camps,  with  no  wish  on  our 
side  that  it  should  be  so!  There  must  have  been 
sin  indeed  on  the  part  of  those  who  went  before 
us  to  have  brought  matters  to  such  a  pass!  And 
what  a  bitter  fate  it  is  to  be  hated  in  this  way 
here,  there,  and  everywhere,  just  because  I  wear 
this  coat  and  drive  this  horse!" 

And  still  the  workers  came  climbing  up  the 
hill.  Their  ranks,  however,  were  growing  thinner, 
and  a  few  old  women,  dragging  their  tired  limbs, 
betokened  that  the  rearguard  was  filing  past. 
All  below  was  now  plunged  in  darkness;  only  the 
top  branches  of  the  trees,  the  points  of  the  gables, 
and  the  chimneys  caught  some  remains  of  light 
from  the  tawny  globe  of  the  sun  that  was  sinking 
into  the  green  bed  of  the  fields  behind  Chantenay; 
and  hidden  by  the  nearer  houses,  there  were  no 


8  REDEMPTION 

doubt  brigs  and  schooners  sailing  up  the  Loire, 
with  their  sails,  just  tipped  with  white,  swelling 
before  the  refreshing  breeze.  The  little  that  could 
be  seen  of  the  town  between  the  factory  roofs  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  road  was  now  veiled  in  a  mist 
that  had  not  lost  the  transparency  of  the  blue 
waters  of  the  river  from  which  it  rose.  Far  off  a 
window  sparkled  as  it  caught  the  low  rays  of  the 
sun.  Victor  noticed  also  that  the  high  factory 
chimneys  had  ceased  to  vomit  their  smoke,  and 
that  from  the  smaller  ones  around  him  it  was  ris- 
ing in  small  gray  plumes,  that  curled,  and  spread 
and  vanished  in  the  air,  a  sure  sign  that  the 
worker  had  returned  home,  that  the  family  were 
together  again,  that  for  one  short  sweet  waking 
hour  the  mother  had  all  her  children  round  her. 
The  day's  work  was  over.  And  as  he  realised  this 
restored  harmony,  and  remembered  for  how  short 
a  time  it  lasted,  and  then  thought  of  that  further 
harmony,  equally  necessary,  which  had  been  de- 
stroyed perhaps  forever,  he  was  conscious  of  a  feel- 
ing of  sadness,  mingled  with  anger,  against  those 
who  had  gone  before.  He  belonged  to  a  gener- 
ation that  had  to  suffer  for  the  rancour  accumu- 
lated by  others.  Moreover,  he  was  aware  that  his 
pity  was  greater  than  his  courage,  and  this  added 
to  his  gloom  and  humiliation. 

He  little  guessed  that  a  few  paces  off  from  him 
an  aged  priest,  well  known  in  the  parish  of  Saint 
Anne,  was  walking  in  the  shelter  of  some  bushes 
and  a  cedar  tree  which  formed  his  garden,  gazing 
toward  the  same  horizon,  and  thinking  the  same 
thoughts.  Outside  this  quarter  of  the  town  he  was 


REDEMPTION  9 

as  little  known  as  the  poor  people  whom  he  suc- 
coured. Every  evening,  as  the  army  of  factory 
workers  came  toiling  up  the  hill,  this  old  and  un- 
wearying friend,  in  return  for  no  human  recom- 
pense, went  out  to  the  bare  mound  under  his 
cedar  tree,  between  the  branches  of  which  he 
could  get  a  glimpse  of  the  town,  and  there  stood 
listening  to  that  tramp  of  poverty  which  he  knew 
so  well,  passing  along  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
wall.  He  had  heard  it  now  for  twelve  years, 
always  with  the  same  emotion,  and  to-night  as 
usual  he  uttered  the  prayer  that  he  had  himself 
composed  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart. 

"Lord  bless  the  earth  that  now  hides  itself  in 
darkness,  bless  the  town  and  its  outskirts,  the 
rich  down  there  that  they  may  have  pity,  the  poor 
here  that  they  may  love  one  another:  above  all, 
the  poor,  my  God,  and  let  the  father  as  he  returns 
home  be  met  by  the  children  with  the  angel  that 
makes  them  smile.  Keep  husbands  and  wives 
from  quarrelling;  let  brothers  live  together  in 
peace;  make  happy  for  all  the  only  hour  when 
they  are  together,  young  and  old,  so  that  not  one 
among  them  may  curse  Thee,  but  rather  that  they 
may  love  Thee,  Lord!  I  pray  to  Thee  for  all 
those  who  will  not  pray  to  Thee  to-night,  I  love 
Thee  for  all  those  who  love  Thee  not,  I  give  my 
life  to  Thee  that  theirs  may  be  better  and  less 
hard.  Take  it,  if  it  please  Thee.  Amen." 

God  did  not  take  him.  He  knew  that  he  was  of 
use. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  road  was  now  in  darkness  and  almost  de- 
serted. Victor  Lemarie"  gathered  up  the  reins, 
and  began  driving  at  a  foot  pace  down  toward 
the  town.  He  turned  off  shortly  along  a  street 
which  led  through  the  outskirts  to  the  Avenue  de 
Launay,  whence  by  a  short  cut  he  reached  the 
boulevard  Delorme,  where  he  lived.  The  gas  was 
already  lighted  in  the  dim  streets;  few  passers- 
by  were  to  be  seen,  for  it  was  already  the  dinner 
hour.  Victor  Lemarie*  was  now  going  at  a  good 
pace ;  just  as  he  turned  the  corner  of  one  of  the 
streets  a  young  girl,  who  was  in  the  act  of  crossing, 
drew  back  with  a  start  and  stepped  again  on  to 
the  pavement.  She  looked  up  and  bowed  slightly 
as  he  took  off  his  hat  to  her.  In  his  salute  there 
was  the  alacrity  natural  to  a  young  man  finding 
himself  face  to  face  with  a  young  and  good-look- 
ing woman,  and  also  some  surprise,  which  might 
be  translated:  "Can  this  charming  girl  really  be 
the  sister  of  the  workman  who  was  speaking  to  me 
up  there?" 

In  the  quick,  hardly  perceptible  bow  of  Henri- 
ette  Madiot  there  was  no  trace  of  coquetry  or  of 
surprise,  or  even  of  any  particular  interest  in  him. 
She  was  one  of  the  slender,  lithe,  young  working 
girls,  whom  one  meets  hurrying  along  every 
morning  at  eight  o'clock,  two  or  three  at  a  time, 

10 


REDEMPTION  11 

making  their  way  to  the  workrooms  of  some 
dress-maker  or  milliner.  They  look  well  dressed 
in  any  scrap  of  clothing,  for  they  are  young — 
what  becomes  of  the  old  women  of  that  class? — 
but  this  scrap  has  been  delightfully  made  up,  for 
they  have  the  fingers  of  artistes  and  twenty  mod- 
els to  copy  from.  They  lend  a  charm  to  the  street 
which  it  misses  when  they  pass  on.  Among  them 
are  girls  who  cough  and  laugh.  They  are  of  the 
people, — occasionally  by  their  gestures,  and  al- 
ways by  their  pricked  fingers,  by  the  feverish 
excitement  and  strenuousness  of  their  life;  but 
not  by  their  trade,  nor  by  the  dreams  awakened 
in  them  by  their  contact  with  a  world  with  which 
they  grow  familiar  in  spirit.  Poor  girls!  whose 
tasks  are  refined,  and  whose  imaginations  are 
quickened  by  the  fashions  they  serve;  who,  in 
order  to  become  good  workwomen,  must  have  a 
taste  for  luxury,  and  are  thereby  rendered  less 
capable  of  resisting  its  temptation;  for  whom 
men  lie  in  wait,  as  they  leave  their  workrooms, 
and  look  upon  as  an  easy  prey,  on  account  of  their 
graceful  poverty  and  enforced  liberty;  who  hear 
everything,  who  see  the  evil  among  the  lower 
classes  and  divine  that  of  the  upper;  who  return 
home  at  night  to  face  afresh  the  poverty  of  their 
condition,  and  who,  whether  they  will  or  no,  are 
continually  comparing  the  world  they  clothe  with 
the  world  to  which  they  belong.  The  trial  is 
hard,  almost  too  hard,  for  they  are  young,  deli- 
cate, affectionate,  and  more  sensitive  than  most 
to  the  caress  of  soft  words.  Those  who  resist  soon 
acquire  a  dignity  of  their  own,  and  put  on  an  air 


12  REDEMPTION 

of  studied  indifference,  which  is  a  protection  to 
them,  as  is  also  their  quick  manner  of  walking. 
Henriette  Madiot  was  one  of  these.  She  had  been 
the  object  of  considerable  homage,  and  had 
grown  mistrustful  of  it. 

Her  bow  was  therefore  but  a  slight  one.  She 
was  in  a  hurry.  They  were  working  late  that 
evening  at  the  work  rooms  of  Madame  Clemence. 
She  drew  the  folds  of  her  dress  more  tightly  round 
her  with  her  gray-gloved  hand,  and  with  her  eyes 
directed  somewhat  above  the  heads  of  the  other 
foot-passengers  she  lightly  crossed  the  road. 

On  entering  the  drawing-room  of  his  father's 
house  in  the  boulevard  Delorme,  Victor  Lamarie* 
found  a  small  company  assembled.  Besides  his 
mother,  there  were  two  old  business  men,  M. 
Tomaire  and  M.  Mourieux,  and  an  unmarried 
woman  of  thirty,  Estelle  Pirmil,  who  had  won  the 
second  prize  at  the  Conservatoire,  gave  lessons, 
knew  everybody  in  the  town,  and  passed  for  an 
original  character. 

His  mother  kissed  him  as  he  was  making  ex- 
cuses for  his  late  return. 

"Are  we  not  a  nice  family  party?  Mourieux 
and  Tomaire  are  both  cousins  of  a  kind;  is  it  not 
so,  Mourieux?" 

"I  am  honoured  to  think  so,"  replied  the  stout 
man,  with  a  bow. 

"You  are  forgetting  that  I  am  here,"  said 
Mademoiselle  Pirmil. 

"I  do  not  count  you,  my  dear,  you  are  at  home, 
as  you  know." 

Fortunately  M.  Lemarie  had  not  yet  appeared. 


REDEMPTION  13 

He  was  a  great  stickler  for  punctuality.  A  mo- 
ment later  he  entered  the  room,  a  small,  thin 
man,  with  bristly  white  hair,  and  a  long  tuft  of 
beard  under  his  short  moustaches.  Accustomed 
evidently  on  entering  any  place  to  sum  up  at  a 
glance  the  number  of  people  who  happened  to  be 
present,  he  counted  the  guests,  saw  that  no  one 
was  missing,  and  then  stepped  forward  with  ex- 
tended hand.  M.  Lemarie  never  lost  his  self- 
control,  and  he  talked  well.  He  had  the  peculiar 
rigidity  of  mind  and  body  which  distinguishes  the 
man  who  has  fought  his  way  up,  and  is  still 
obliged  to  fight  to  maintain  his  position.  As  he 
shook  his  son's  hand,  he  remarked,  speaking  with 
his  lips  only : 

"Had  a  nice  drive  to-day?  Was  the  air  pleas- 
ant?" 

"Only  tolerably  so." 

"That  was  a  pity.  I  have  been  in  a  rush  all 
day  myself." 

Dinner  being  over,  and  the  evening  fine,  they 
went  into  the  garden — large,  square-shaped, 
damp,  and  surrounded  by  high  walls,  its  neg- 
lected condition  contrasting  with  the  comfort  of 
the  well-kept  house.  The  path  which  led  round 
the  lawn  was  overgrown  with  moss,  the  branches 
of  the  trees,  planted  along  three  sides  of  the  en- 
closures, straggled  in  unpruned  disorder  over  the 
clumps  of  withered  geraniums. 

The  conversation,  which  had  been  kept  up 
pretty  briskly  until  this  moment,  seemed  sud- 
denly to  receive  a  check.  The  men  grouped 
themselves  on  one  of  the  seats  at  the  bottom  of 


14  REDEMPTION 

the  garden  under  the  acacia  trees,  and  the  two 
women  on  another  close  beside  it.  The  lawn, 
funereal  in  colour,  lay  in  front  of  them,  and  be- 
yond it,  far  away,  as  it  seemed,  could  be  seen  the 
three  steps,  yellow  with  age,  leading  to  the  dining- 
room,  and  just  now  brilliantly  illumined  by  the 
lamps  and  candles  which  were  still  alight.  Sil- 
houetted against  this  luminous  background,  which 
attracted  and  fatigued  the  eye,  could  be  seen  at 
intervals  the  dark  figure  of  a  servant,  passing 
across  it  like  a  puff  of  smoke.  Far  overhead,  visi- 
ble between  the  leaves  of  the  trees,  so  far  that  no 
one  gave  them  a  thought,  the  stars,  shining  with 
a  pale,  blue  light,  lay  sleeping. 

A  long  sharp  whistle  broke  the  silence. 

"Moll's  workpeople  only  just  going  off,"  said 
M.  Lemarie.  "They  have  been  working  late  for 
the  last  month,  owing  to  the  large  orders  that 
have  come  in  for  the  Chilian  Navy." 

"It's  hard  upon  them,"  remarked  Victor. 

"You  pity  them?" 

"Most  sincerely." 

The  four  men — M.  Lamarie*,  M.  Tomaire,  M. 
Mourieux,  and  Victor — were  sitting  in  a  row  on 
the  garden-seat,  watching  the  smoke  that  curled 
up  from  their  cigars  and  formed  a  little  cloud  on 
a  level  with  their  eyes.  M.  Lemarie  remained  si- 
lent for  a  moment  or  two,  and  drew  a  few  strong 
whiffs  from  his  cigar.  His  features  stiffened  into 
an  expression  of  stubborn  determination  at  the 
first  word  of  contradiction.  The  lines  round  his 
mouth  and  between  his  eyes  grew  deeper.  It  was 
again  the  face  of  the  factory  owner,  prompt  and 


REDEMPTION  15 

dictatorial  in  the  defence  of  his  own  interests. 
This  diversity  of  opinion  between  him  and  his  son, 
due  to  the  difference  in  their  education,  the  age 
in  which  they  were  born,  and  their  surroundings, 
was  displeasing  to  him.  Any  allusion  to  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  working  class  he  took  as  a  personal 
injury,  since  his  conscience  as  an  employer  was 
without  reproach,  for  had  he  not  always  been 
just,  always  shown  respect  to  the  law,  and  always 
been  unpopular?  He  replied,  in  a  combative  tone 
and  with  a  touch  of  irony: 

"The  Eight-hours'  Day — that's  it,  I  suppose." 

"No." 

"Well,  it  will  be  all  the  same  to  me  if  it's  ten. 
Look  at  me,  I  work  fourteen  hours  a  day,  and  I  do 
not  complain.  If  you  think  the  position  of  an 
employer  is  an  enviable  one  nowadays,  it's  be- 
cause you  are  not  one  yourself.  We  make  very 
little  profit,  we  risk  everything;  we  are  always 
liable  to  absurd  claims  being  made  upon  us  by 
those  who  have  no  knowledge  at  all  of  the  busi- 
ness, to  say  nothing  of  those  put  forward  by  the 
workpeople,  who  understand  too  much.  Is  it 
not  so,  Tomaire?  Is  it  not  so,  Mourieux?" 

"It's  true  enough,"  said  Tomaire. 

"Not  entirely  true,"  said  Mourieux. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  have  a  tender  heart,  Mour- 
ieux, and  it's  proved  by  the  manner  in  which  you 
treat  your  hands.  You  find  them  places,  you 
help  them  in  every  way,  you  would  give  up  your 
own  house  to  them  to  live  in.  But  one  is  not 
obliged  to  do  all  this.  And  do  they  ever  give 
you  anything  in  return?  You  are  not  simple 


16  REDEMPTION 

enough  to  believe  they  do.  They  only  laugh  at 
you." 

"Some  of  them,"  replied  Mourieux,  quietly. 

"I  am  not  fond  of  people  laughing  at  me.  I 
would  not  put  up  with  it  in  my  work  rooms.  Nor 
will  I  have  anything  to  do  with  journalists  and 
theorists,  who  have  never  even  had  a  single  per- 
son under  them,  or  with  those  who  are  always 
weeping  over  other  people's  poverty, — and  there 
has  been  a  plague  of  them  for  the  last  ten  years, — 
who  want  to  come  and  interfere  with  the  em- 
ployer and  sympathize  with  the  working  people. 
If  Victor  sees  a  man  in  a  blouse,  he  is  overcome 
with  emotion  at  once." 

"Not  because  of  the  blouse." 

"He  would  like  him  to  have  an  income  of  his 
own.  If  they  knew  how  to  economize,  they  could 
get  an  income  in  time  from  what  we  pay  them; 
but  they  are  always  wanting  more  money  and 
more  leisure,  and  to  have  retiring  pensions,  so  that 
they  may  be  spared  the  trouble  of  saving.  Do 
you  tell  me ?" 

"I  am  not  prepared  to  dispute  with  you. 
These  things  are  a  matter  of  feeling  with  me.  All 
I  know  is  that  there  is  a  growing  feeling  of  unrest, 
and  that  a  new  need  has  arisen." 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear  boy;  there  has  always 
been  the  same  talk  about  everything,  and  about 
this  question  of  living,  more  or  less  acute  accord- 
ing to  the  age.  Nothing  is  new." 

"Yes,  there  is  something  new." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"The  absence  of  love,  of  fraternity,  if  you  pre- 


REDEMPTION  17 

fer  it.  Nearly  all  the  existing  evil  arises  from  that, 
and  everything  would  soon  be  set  right  if  we  only 
loved  one  another.  I  have  just  been  watching 
some  thousands  of  these  working  people  file  past; 
they  all  appeared  to  look  upon  me  as  their  enemy. 
My  birth  alone  makes  them  suspicious  of  me. 
They  do  not  know  me,  and  yet  they  hate  me. 
They  never  come  inside  my  house  and  I  do  not  go 
inside  theirs." 

"They  come  inside  my  house,  assuredly." 
"Pardon  me,  not  inside  your  house.  Inside 
your  factory,  if  you  like,  but  that  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent thing.  From  one  year's  end  to  the  other 
those  men  see  only  two  representatives  of  their 
master:  his  money  and  his  foremen.  They  are 
not  likely  to  find  much  to  affect  them  in  those. 
In  the  case  of  a  dismissal  the  employer,  it  is  true, 
does  the  business  himself !  But  where  is  there  any 
bond,  any  pleasure  in  common,  any  daily,  or  even 
occasional  mark  of  friendship,  or  good-will,  to 
counteract  the  jealousy  springing  up  afresh  at 
every  turn,  and  the  continual  clashing  of  interests? 
Can  you  see  a  sign  of  these  anywhere? — I  cannot. 
As  to  others  of  our  class,  like  myself,  who  manu- 
facture nothing  and  sell  nothing,  they  seldom 
enter  the  poorer  districts,  since  it  is  understood 
now  that  the  rich  and  the  poor  have  their  sepa- 
rate quarters  in  the  towns.  They  are  born,  and 
spend  their  lives,  laugh  or  cry,  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  one  another.  And  yet  the  two  classes 
never  show  the  slightest  sign  of  any  relationship 
with,  or  consideration  for,  one  another.  I  tell  you 
that  this  sort  of  thing  gives  rise  at  times  to  suffer- 


18  REDEMPTION 

ing,  and  that  I  myself  suffer  from  it.  The  hatred 
they  bear  us  is  born  of  this  indifference  far  more 
than  from  any  positive  grievances." 

" Bravo!"  cried  Mademoiselle  Estelle  Pirmil, 
wishing  to  bring  about  a  diversion.  "You  know 
how  to  preach  well,  Victor;  you  missed  your 
vocation." 

The  young  man,  who  as  he  spoke  had  become 
animated  in  a  way  which  was  unusual  with  him, 
and  who  was  now  scraping  the  gravel  with  the 
toes  of  his  boots,  answered  with  some  temper: 

"I  dare  say." 

"I  must  confess,"  added  the  little  woman,  who 
had  caught  nothing  of  the  conversation  except 
the  word  "love,"  "I  do  not  understand  you, 
Victor.  No  love?  The  poor  people  do  not  appear 
to  me  to  deprive  themselves  of  that.  You  have 
only  to  count  the  children  swarming  in  the  sub- 
urbs: why,  my  baker's  wife  has  seven!" 

She  laughed  as  she  finished  speaking,  and  her 
shrill  voice  was,  for  a  moment,  the  only  sound 
that  rose  above  the  deep  silence  of  the  night. 

"People  like  that  ought  not  to  have  more  than 
one  or  two  children.  That  would  be  a  reasonable 
number.  What  do  you  say?  " 

Madame  Lemarie",  the  mother,  whose  heavy, 
ordinary  face  rarely  betrayed  any  emotion, 
moved  her  lips  without  speaking,  while  she  put 
out  her  hand  and  touched  the  arm  of  the  second 
prize-winner  of  the  Conservatoire  in  order  to  stop 
her.  The  latter  did  not  understand  the  hint,  but 
left  off  speaking. 

This  empty-headed  chatter  provoked  no  reply, 


REDEMPTION  19 

and  the  silence  that  followed  was  rendered  the 
more  painful  from  the  consciousness  of  those 
present  that  the  discussion  between  the  father 
and  son,  although  carried  on  with  apparent 
courtesy,  hid  a  deeper  misunderstanding. 

M.  Lemarie",  continuing  to  lean  back  in  his  seat, 
threw  away  his  cigar,  which  lay  shining  like  a 
glowworm  upon  the  grass.  Everybody  began 
looking  toward  this  luminous  spot  in  the  midst 
of  the  dark  circle  of  lawn.  And  so  they  continued 
sitting  and  gazing.  Neither  Mourieux  nor  M. 
Lemarie's  other  friend  had  any  wish  to  begin 
a  quarrel — the  first,  because  he  knew  that  quar- 
rels were  of  no  avail;  the  second,  for  hygienic 
reasons,  and  for  fear  of  disturbing  his  feelings. 
But  their  very  presence  and  their  silence  were  in 
themselves  aggravating. 

M.  Lemarie  took  up  the  conversation: 

"It  is  charming  to  hear  you  talking  of  the  love 
of  the  people.  But  it  would  be  well  to  add  an 
example  of  it.  Can  you  do  so?" 

"Not  one,"  replied  Victor,  raising  his  head. 
"I  am  perfectly  useless,  and  I  know  it.  What  is 
more,  I  shall  probably  remain  so." 

"And  then?" 

"I  might  have  had  a  different  life  altogether. 
I  asked  you  to  let  me  come  into  the  factory,  and 
you  refused." 

"I  should  think  so!  I  have  too  much  trouble 
as  it  is  to  keep  the  factory  going  in  these  days  of 
competition.  And  I  do  it  for  the  sake  of  my 
workpeople,  whatever  you  may  think.  You,  my 
dear  son,  would  let  it  go  to  ruin." 


20  REDEMPTION 

"Thank  you." 

"I  am  so  sure  of  it,  that,  when  my  time  is  over, 
the  factory  doors  will  be  closed.  It  is  my  wish 
that  it  should  be  so,  and  I  shall  take  care  that 
my  wish  is  carried  out." 

"As  for  that,  you  need  have  no  fear.  My  de- 
sires on  that  score  are  over;  I  have  lost  the  habit 
of  work  by  this  time." 

Conscious  of  the  awkwardness  of  this  scene  in 
the  presence  of  visitors,  and  at  the  same  time  not 
wishing  to  appear  to  give  in,  Victor  tried  to  turn 
the  conversation: 

"I  saw  Madiot's  son  this  evening." 

"A  bad  lot!" 

"Yes.   I  also  met  his  sister." 

"Indeed!" 

M.  Lemari6  turned  his  head,  which  was  resting 
against  the  back  of  the  seat,  in  the  direction  of  his 
son,  whom  he  could  only  just  distinguish  in  the 
shadow,  and  shot  a  queer,  sharp,  inquisitive 
glance  toward  him. 

"Did  you  speak  to  her?" 

"No.  A  quiet,  lady-like  girl,  such  a  contrast  to 
her  brother.  You  think  well  of  her,  do  you  not, 
M.  Mourieux?" 

The  old  man  addressed,  not  expecting  to  be 
drawn  into  the  conversation,  made  a  face,  hesi- 
tated, and  answered  with  the  evident  wish  not 
to  commit  himself: 

"Yes,  like  a  good  many  others  of  her  trade, 
she  is  not  bad.  They  all  come  to  my  house." 

Then  raising  his  voice,  so  as  to  be  heard  by  the  two 
ladies,  who  had  started  talking  to  one  another  again : 


REDEMPTION  21 

"Do  you  not  find  it  a  little  chilly,  Mesdames?" 

The  men  themselves  agreed  that  the  evening 
was  fresh,  although  there  was  neither  dew,  nor 
wind,  nor  fog;  and  so  they  all  rose  and  returned 
to  the  house. 

Madame  Lemarie  drew  Mourieux  back  as  they 
were  entering,  and  said  in  a  slow  voice : 

"It  is  sad,  is  it  not,  Mourieux?  But  Victor,  I 
think,  is  in  the  right." 

"Yes,  Madame,"  replied  the  good  man,  "but 
those  are  things  which  you  can  never  teach,  and 
which  do  not  bear  discussing." 

"My  Victor  has  a  good  heart." 

"Indeed  he  has,"  said  Mourieux,  timidly. 

She  had  taken  some  gold  out  of  her  pocket,  and 
she  now  slipped  the  money  into  Mourieux's  hand. 

"Take  it — for  your  apprentices,  for  the  li- 
brary." 

"She  is  the  only  really  good  person  in  this 
house,"  thought  Mourieux.  "Her  heart  is  sound 
to  the  core.  It  stands  her  instead  of  brains — and 
it  is  worth  more." 


CHAPTER  III. 


HENRIETTE  MADIOT,  crossing  the  road  after  Victor 
Lemarie  had  driven  past,  went  quickly  on  toward 
the  Rue  Crebillon.  At  seven  o'clock,  the  usual 
hour  for  closing,  Madame  Clemence,  the  head  of 
the  establishment,  had  opened  the  door  of  the 
work  room,  and  uttered  the  familiar  formula: 
"Mesdemoiselles,  there  will  be  overtime  to-night." 
Whereupon  the  apprentice  had  run  off  to  pur- 
chase ham  and  bread,  and  the  girls  had  eaten  a 
hasty  supper  off  the  corners  of  the  tables.  It  was 
during  this  interval  that  Henriette  Madiot,  not 
being  hungry,  had  gone  out  to  buy  a  few  indis- 
pensable articles  of  millinery. 

She  reentered  the  work  room,  carrying  a  small 
parcel  done  up  in  tissue  paper — feathers,  flowers, 
and  reels  of  brass  wire,  which  she  had  bought  at 
Mourieux's  place  of  business.  She  made  haste  to 
repair  lost  time.  The  evening  being  so  fine,  she 
had  taken  a  turn  round  two  or  three  blocks  of 
houses,  so  as  to  enjoy  a  little  fresh  air  and  relaxa- 
tion after  sitting  for  so  many  hours  without  mov- 
ing. It  did  not  take  long  for  her  youth  and  fresh- 
ness to  reassert  themselves;  the  colour  came  into 
her  cheeks;  her  step  grew  light,  her  mouth,  which 
was  a  little  wide,  relaxed,  the  parted  lips  showing 
her  white  teeth.  As  her  friends  had  often  re- 
marked, she  recovered  her  vivacity  and  light- 

22 


REDEMPTION  23 

heartedness  more  quickly  than  the  others.  She 
was  strong  and  well-made.  At  first  sight,  one 
might  have  taken  her  for  an  English  girl,  with  her 
fair,  wavy  hair,  that  rose  in  light  curls  above  her 
forehead,  and  was  gathered  into  a  knot  of  shining 
coils  at  the  back,  like  a  thick  wisp  of  fresh  straw 
that  sparkles  as  it  is  twisted,  and  her  pale  green, 
sea-coloured  eyes,  that  left  on  those  who  saw  her 
the  impression  of  depth  and  clearness,  and  her 
delicate  complexion,  her  straight  figure,  the  air 
of  calm  self-possession.  But  the  intelligent  smile 
that  came  so  readily  to  her  lips  and  was  so  loath 
to  leave  them,  the  hands,  and,  above  all,  the  per- 
fect taste  of  her  simple  toilette,  which  bespoke 
the  well-to-do  working  girl,  made  it  impossible  to 
mistake  her  French  origin. 

M.  Mourieux,  who  had  known  her  since  she  was 
a  child,  was  in  the  habit  of  declaring  that  there 
was  no  other  girl  her  equal,  either  in  skill  or  in 
natural  distinction  of  manner.  He  wished  her 
well  although  unable  to  do  much  for  her,  for 
Mademoiselle  Henriette  was  not  one  to  ask  often 
for  advice,  even  from  M.  Mourieux.  He  was 
pleased,  however,  when  he  heard  her  young  friends, 
not  overindulgent  as  a  rule,  acknowledge  that 
Henriette  Madiot's  conduct  was  unimpeachable, 
and  that  she  would  undoubtedly  one  day  rise  to 
be  forewoman  under  Madame  Cl&nence,  when 
Mademoiselle  Augustine's  time  was  up. 

Half-way  down  the  Rue  Crebillon  she  came  to 
the  entrance  of  a  passage,  on  the  wall  of  which 
was  written  in  gold  letters,  on  a  black  marble 
slab,   " Madame   Clemence,   Modes,   first  floor." 


24  REDEMPTION 

With  her  figure  thrown  slightly  back,  and  her 
head  a  little  to  the  left,  she  paused  a  moment  to 
examine,  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur,  the  con- 
tents of  a  window  dressed  out  with  laces:  then, 
after  a  parting  glance  toward  the  street,  as  if  in 
farewell  to  the  fresh  outside  air,  she  turned  into 
the  passage  and  went  upstairs. 

At  the  head  of  the  second  flight  of  stairs  was  a 
door  on  which  was  repeated  the  announcement 
quoted  above.  Henriette  turned  the  small  brass 
handle,  gave  a  little  nod  to  the  cashier,  who  sat 
dreaming  in  front  of  her  account  books,  and 
passed  along  the  corridor,  which  was  covered 
with  a  thick,  gray  pile  carpet.  No  milliner  in 
Nantes  had  such  luxurious  rooms  as  Madame 
Clemence.  The  corridor — lighted  to  the  right  by 
a  screen  of  ornamental  ground  glass,  behind 
which  lay  concealed  rooms,  shops,  and  beyond 
them  the  work  room — opened  on  the  left  into  two 
adjoining  rooms  decorated  with  a  skill  and  taste 
that  were  quite  intoxicating.  The  first  of  these, 
of  which  one  caught  a  glimpse  between  the  half- 
drawn  portieres  on  first  entering  the  corridor,  was 
devoted  to  the  regular  display  of  hats  of  all  shapes 
and  colours.  Models  from  Paris,  and  others  cre- 
ated on  the  spot,  trimmed  with  ribbons,  feathers, 
or  flowers,  perched  on  stands  of  black  wood  of 
varying  heights,  and  arranged  in  groups  with  a 
consummate  understanding  of  the  effects  of  light 
and  the  happy  mingling  of  colours.  To  the  room 
beyond,  where  the  trying-on  took  place,  Madame 
Clemence  owed  half  her  fortune.  Walls,  arm- 
chairs, and  sofa  were  covered  with  pale-blue 


REDEMPTION  25 

plush,  which  rolled  in  soft  luxuriance  around  four 
tall  mirrors,  over  which,  rising  from  pots  hidden 
in  the  corners  behind  the  curtains,  hung  delicate 
hot-house  creepers,  that  were  gently  stirred  by 
every  passing  sweep  of  a  skirt.  There  was  no 
woman  to  whom  it  was  not  a  pleasure  to  enter 
that  room.  The  atmosphere  of  ease  and  elegance 
that  clung  about  it,  the  velvety  softness  of  its 
hangings,  the  subdued  brilliance  of  the  mirrors, 
in  which  they  saw  their  reflected  images  sur- 
rounded by  a  frame  of  neutral  tints,  a  few  particu- 
larly choice  models  here  and  there,  placed  so  that 
they  caught  every  angle  of  reflection,  tempted  even 
the  wisest  of  her  customers  to  extravagance  and 
routed  the  economy  of  the  most  prudent.  Madame 
Clemence  was  quite  aware  of  all  this.  They  bought 
what  she  wished,  the  mute  counsel  of  the  little 
plush-covered  room  determining  their  choice. 

Henriette  Madiot  went  along  the  corridor,  past 
the  models  and  the  trying-on  room,  and  on  arriv- 
ing quite  at  the  farther  end  opened  the  door  of 
the  work  room. 

"It's  you,  is  it,  Mademoiselle  Henriette?"  said 
the  forewoman,  in  an  ill-tempered  voice.  "You 
have  taken  your  time  about  it!  We  finished  sup- 
per more  than  ten  minutes  ago." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Mademoiselle,"  replied  Hen- 
riette, composedly. 

"I  am  sure  of  it,  Mademoiselle." 

Louise,  the  little  red-haired  apprentice,  with  fat 
cheeks,  put  in:  "And  if  you  had  but  tasted  how 
salt  the  ham  was!" 

All  the  girls  present  began  to  laugh,  delighted 


26  REDEMPTION 

to  have  an  excuse  for  doing  so,  for  there  was  a 
refreshment  to  them  in  laughter.  The  youngest 
among  them  gave  full  vent  to  their  merriment, 
voice,  eyes,  lips,  the  whole  face  joining  in,  while 
the  other  ones  gave  a  quiet  smile,  not  lifting  their 
eyes,  the  smile  of  those  of  superior  age  to  whom 
the  fun  of  the  children  affords  a  passing  amuse- 
ment; then  some  of  them,  still  plying  the  needle, 
looked  up  for  a  moment  to  watch  Henriette 
Madiot.  The  latter,  accustomed  to  the  forewom- 
an's remarks,  pushed  her  stool  toward  the  table, 
near  the  door.  She  lifted  her  dress,  seated  her- 
self, and  said,  as  she  drew  toward  her  a  half- 
trimmed  hat,  which  already  boasted  of  three  bows 
of  cream-coloured  ribbon: 

"The  air  out  of  doors  is  so  delicious  that  it  puts 
one  in  quite  a  good  temper." 

Mademoiselle  Augustine  pretended  not  to  hear, 
and  began  undoing  the  packet  that  Henriette  had 
brought  in.  The  apprentice  turned  her  eyes 
toward  the  upper  part  of  the  window,  which  was 
not,  like  the  lower  panes,  filled  with  fluted  glass, 
and  through  which  could  be  seen  the  top  of  a  tree, 
waving  against  the  sky.  There  was  something  to 
her  as  beautiful  as  Paradise  in  that  square  of  blue, 
and  she  sighed.  All  the  girls'  heads  were  now 
bending  over  their  work,  and  the  only  sound  was 
that  of  the  scissors,  cutting  the  threads  of  the  hat 
shapes  as  they  slipped  over  the  workers'  nails,  of 
the  creaking  of  an  old  stool  with  loose  joints,  or 
words  hardly  above  a  whisper:  "Pass  me  the 
wire,  Mademoiselle  Irma."  "Do  you  know  where 
my  cream  tulle  is,  Mademoiselle  Lucie?"  "How 


REDEMPTION  27 

I  wish  I  could  go  out  this  evening,  my  eyes  are 
hurting  me."  Every  now  and  then  there  was  a 
stifled  gape.  There  was  a  more  nervous  gesture 
about  the  hands  now  than  in  the  morning.  At 
intervals,  one  of  the  workers  would  spread  her 
fingers  out  flat  on  the  green  cloth,  and  after  look- 
ing at  them  a  moment,  without  speaking,  close 
them  again  over  the  needle. 

Madame  Clemence  employed  twelve  young 
women  during  the  season;  some  of  these  were 
working  at  two  tables  which  ran  parallel  with 
each  other  from  the  door  to  the  window,  allowing 
a  narrow  passage  between  them,  and  the  remainder 
at  two  others  placed  against  the  walls,  upon 
which  was  hung  a  gray  paper  with  blue  flowers. 
A  stove  near  the  window  to  the  left,  a  large  brown 
cupboard  for  clothes  on  the  other  side,  and  some 
strongly  made  stools  with  straw  seats,  constituted 
the  permanent  furniture  of  the  room.  The  re- 
mainder was  taken  from  the  drawers  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  put  back  into  them  again  at  night;  it 
consisted  of  the  smaller  necessaries  and  instru- 
ments of  the  trade;  reels  of  white  and  black  cot- 
ton, of  brass  wire,  skeins  of  silk,  long  lengths  of 
ribbon,  and  feathers  given  out  by  the  manager  in 
the  adjoining  room.  The  girls  were  seated  at  one 
side  only  of  each  of  the  tables,  the  cutter-out  next 
to  the  trimmer,  and  Mademoiselle  Augustine  was 
the  only  one  who,  besides  the  cutter-out,  had  a 
"little  hand"  to  wait  upon  her.  The  apprentice 
did  not  belong  to  any  one  of  the  workers  in  par- 
ticular, and  her  apprenticeship  chiefly  consisted 
in  running  the  errands  of  the  house. 


28  REDEMPTION 

The  night  had  been  slowly  climbing  up  the  sky, 
and  now  the  last  rose-coloured  cloud  had  disap- 
peared. The  twelve  women  still  sat  industriously 
working,  but  it  was  only  necessary  to  look  at  their 
faces  to  see  how  the  prolonged  strain  was  telling 
on  brain  and  hand.  There  were  dark  marks  round 
their  eyes,  and  now  and  then  one  of  them  would 
pass  her  hand  across  her  lids  to  keep  away  sleep. 
In  the  heavy  atmosphere  which  they  had  been 
inhaling  all  day,  and  which  was  growing  hotter 
now  that  the  lamps  had  been  lighted,  the  breathing 
grew  quicker,  as  the  young  lungs  gasped  for  life  in 
the  air  which  was  becoming  every  moment  more 
exhausted.  Mademoiselle  Irma  gave  a  little  hard 
cough.  Facing  one  another  at  opposite  ends  of 
the  tables,  Mademoiselle  Augustine  and  Henriette 
Madiot  were  both  busy  trimming  a  hat.  The 
former  was  trying  to  adjust  a  bunch  of  red  pop- 
pies on  a  turned-up  shape,  but  she  could  not  get 
it  to  set  as  elegantly  as  she  wished.  She  was  grow- 
ing nervous.  The  face  was  thin,  and  already 
worn,  and  now  the  lips  kept  parting  with  a  quick, 
painful  movement.  Henriette  Madiot,  her  arms 
slightly  rounded,  and  her  fingers  meeting  as  she 
folded  a  broad,  cream-coloured  ribbon  into  the 
shape  of  a  fan,  was  smiling  from  the  depths  of  her 
pale  eyes,  as  she  saw  that  this  evening  she  was 
able  at  the  first  attempt  to  give  her  work  just 
that  turn  which  is  the  delight,  the  care,  and  the 
livelihood  of  all  young  milliners,  that  finishing 
touch  of  art,  into  which  they  put  their  youth, 
their  feminine  imagination,  the  dream  which  their 
twenty  years  would  so  gladly  see  realized  for 


REDEMPTION  29 

themselves,  and  which  they  resign  to  the  rich, 
indefinitely,  for  as  long  as  their  heads  -can  invent 
and  their  fingers  carry  out  an  idea. 

Outside,  the  reluctant  stars,  struggling  with  a 
remnant  of  light,  still  refused  to  shine,  but  the 
deep  spaces  of  the  sky  were  filled  with  them,  as 
with  an  impalpable  powder,  of  which  no  single 
grain  is  distinguishable.  It  was  the  hour  when  the 
grass  drinks  the  dew  and  is  revived;  when  the 
horses  in  the  fields  fall  asleep  on  three  legs  under 
the  dwarf  willows;  through  the  window,  had  it 
been  opened,  would  have  come  the  timid  cry  of 
some  bird  of  the  marshes  flying  home.  The 
women  sat  on,  stitching,  cutting  and  shaping. 

"Half-past  eight,"  murmured  Mademoiselle 
Lucie,  a  stout  blonde,  who  always  wore  her  cuffs 
turned  back,  and  who  could  not  aspire  to  the  po- 
sition of  a  trimmer  on  account  of  the  perspiration 
which  broke  out  in  beads  on  her  wrists.  "An- 
other half-hour  and  we  shall  be  off,  and  to-mor- 
row is  Sunday!" 

She  made  a  movement  with  her  arm  as  if  throw- 
ing a  cap  up  into  the  air.  Some  of  the  others 
smiled.  The  greater  number,  fevered  with  work, 
heard  and  saw  nothing.  Certain  pressing  orders 
had  to  be  finished.  Their  anxiety  to  get  through 
the  work  made  them  serious,  as  also  the  thought, 
always  uppermost  on  pay  day,  of  home,  where 
the  wages  of  the  week  were  anxiously  looked  for 
and  often  spent  in  advance.  The  same  vision  was 
present  under  dark  hair  and  fair,  as  the  light  from 
the  lamps  fell  on  the  stooping  heads;  the  aged 
mother,  whom  nearly  all  of  them  had  to  support, 


30  REDEMPTION 

the  brothers,  the  sisters,  the  inherited  debts, 
which  they  were  paying  off.  Even  those  who 
lived  with  their  lovers  were  seldom  without  some 
near  relative  who  claimed  their  help,  and  they 
had  a  feeling  in  common  with  the  best  and  purest 
in  this  sense  of  generous  responsibility,  which 
lent  a  saving  strength  to  their  benumbed  fingers, 
and  to  the  tired  mind  striving  to  concentrate  it- 
self on  some  bow  of  ribbon  that  had  to  be  made 
up  or  tastefully  arranged. 

The  girls  did  not  again  lift  their  heads,  and 
the  white  necks,  softly  encircled  with  the  mingled 
light  and  shade,  remained  bent  over  their  work. 

A  ring  came  at  the  outer  door,  and  a  moment 
later  the  cashier  appeared : 

"Mademoiselle  Augustine,  a  girl  has  called  and 
asks  to  see  some  one." 

"At  this  hour!" 

"She  wishes  to  know  if  there  is  work  to  be  had." 

"Madame  Clemence  is  at  dinner,  and  cannot  be 
disturbed.  Besides,  you  know  there  is  no  work, 
the  dead  season  is  just  coming  on." 

Then,  on  second  thoughts,  as  the  cashier  shut 
the  door  behind  her: 

"Just  go  and  see,  Mademoiselle  Henriette.  I 
cannot  leave  my  work.  The  flowers  you  brought 
in  will  not  sit  properly.  There  is  nothing  chic 
about  them." 

Henriette  rose,  and  went  to  the  end  of  the  cor- 
ridor. Waiting  near  the  door  was  a  young  girl, 
whose  figure  and  dress  were  completely  hidden  by 
a  long  black  cloak,  more  fitted  for  winter  wear 
than  summer.  Instinctively  she  glanced  down  at 


REDEMPTION  31 

the  boots — that  tell-tale  article  of  dress — and 
saw  that  they  were  in  a  pitiable  condition,  trod- 
den to  the  ground  and  white  with  age  at  the  tips. 
Then  she  looked  at  the  face,  half-shadowed  by  the 
brim  of  the  hat,  a  face  looking  full  at  her,  with 
hard  features,  and  dark,  bright,  deep-set  eyes. 
That  which  struck  her  most,  however,  was  its 
tragic,  almost  fierce,  expression.  She  had  surely 
met  with  many  rebuffs  before  coming  here.  There 
was  no  effort  on  her  part  to  appear  agreeable,  or 
to  plead  her  cause;  to  see  her  was  to  know  that 
the  heart  within  her  was  as  dark  as  death,  and 
that  this  wild-looking  wayfarer  of  the  streets, 
who  was  asking  almost  haughtily  for  work,  was 
only  waiting  for  her  answer  to  solve  a  terrible 
problem,  of  no  account  to  others,  and  which  was 
known  only  to  herself.  She  had  her  hand  on  the 
door  of  the  staircase,  ready  to  turn  and  descend. 

And  so  the  girls  stood  for  some  moments  face 
to  face  with  one  another.  A  look  of  compassion 
came  into  Henriette  Madiot's  face: 

"You  wish  to  speak  to  Madame  Clemence? 
She  cannot  see  you  just  now." 

"  You  mean  there  is  no  work?  "  replied  the  girl,  in 
a  low,  toneless  voice. 

"I  am  afraid  not — the  season  is  ending,  you 
see." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  girl,  speaking  in  the 
same,  dull,  lifeless  manner. 

And  with  these  words  she  turned  and  hurried 
downstairs,  going  quickly,  very  quickly.  She 
was  in  haste,  for  her  will  alone  enabled  her  to 
bear  up  against  her  luckless  fate.  The  sound  of 


32  REDEMPTION 

her  feet,  first  on  the  carpet,  and  then  on  the  oak 
of  the  stairway,  gradually  grew  less  and  less. 
She  was  no  longer  visible.  Henriette  Madiot 
stood  for  a  minute  or  two,  thinking  to  herself  that 
Misery  had  come  knocking  at  the  door,  and  was 
being  turned  away.  She  recalled  the  hard  ex- 
pression on  the  face;  she  heard  again  that  sound 
in  the  voice,  as  of  one  who  had  lost  her  soul,  or 
whose  soul  was  too  dejected  to  show  itself.  A 
feeling  of  pity  took  possession  of  her,  and,  urged 
by  a  sudden  impulse,  she  ran  to  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs.  She  almost  knocked  against  the  girl 
at  the  end  of  the  passage  near  the  street.  The 
latter  looked  over  her  shoulder  without  stopping. 

"Mademoiselle!" 

The  girl  stopped,  recognized  Henriette,  and 
timidly  stepped  back  on  to  the  worn  stone  that 
formed  the  threshold  of  the  house;  there  she 
stood  motionless,  her  dark  eyes  fixed  on  Henri- 
ette, who  lowered  her  own,  not  knowing  what  to 
say,  or  how  to  give  expression  to  the  pity  that  had 
hold  of  her. 

"Listen,  it  is  true  that  the  season  is  just  at  an 
end,  and  that  there  is  no  work;  but,  perhaps,  if 
I  spoke  to  Madame  Clemence.  You  look  so 
miserable!" 

The  other  drew  herself  up,  and  said  in  an 
offended  voice : 

"You  are  mistaken.  I  am  not  miserable.  All 
I  ask  for  is  work." 

Henriette,  fearing  that  she  had  hurt  her  feel- 
ings, replied  gently : 

"Forgive  me.    What  is  your  name?" 


REDEMPTION  33 


"Marie  Schwarz." 

"You  know  how  to  work?" 


"If  I  did,  I  should  have  found  something. 
You  understand!" 

"Could  you  do  the  cutting  out?" 

"I  have  had  no  apprenticeship.  I  come  from 
Paris.  I  was  a  showroom  model  at  a  dressmak- 
er's; look " 

She  opened  her  cloak  as  she  spoke,  and  showed 
a  tall,  elegant  figure. 

"Well,  then,  if  you  can  do  nothing." 

A  sudden  look  of  sadness  had  fallen  over  Hen- 
riette's  face.  She  could  hold  out  no  hope,  she 
could  see  no  way  of  helping  this  unhappy  girl. 
She  looked  at  her  as  we  look  at  those  whom  we 
shall  never  see  again,  who  are  waiting  to  plunge 
into  the  darkness  and  disappear,  and  whom  yet 
we  would  hold  back  if  we  could,  unknown  shadows 
who  bear  some  mark  of  fraternity,  we  hardly  know 
what,  upon  their  foreheads.  She  opened  her  lips 
to  say  good-by,  when  a  sudden  idea  struck  her 
which  brought  a  blush  of  pleasure  to  her  cheeks. 
She  stretched  out  her  arm  quickly,  and  lifted  the 
large  felt  hat.  ' '  Have  you  much  hair?  "  she  asked. 

A  mass  of  hair,  dark,  untidy  and  tangled,  but 
rich  and  heavy,  fell  half  down  on  Marie's  shoulder. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see  you  have  a  quantity.  With  a 
little  curling,  you  might  do  for  a  trier-on." 

Marie  Schwarz  turned  paler.  Her  eyes  grew 
softer  and  longer,  and  within  them  shone  the 
mingled  gleam  of  tears  and  a  faint  ray  of  happi- 
ness. She  put  her  hand  out  hesitatingly: 

"I  am  in  such  need,"  she  said. 


34  REDEMPTION 

Henriette  took  the  hand  in  its  old  black  glove, 
the  fingers  almost  gone,  and  pressed  it  affec- 
tionately : 

"I  must  go.  They  will  scold  me.  I  will  talk 
to  Madame  Clemence  to-night.  Come  to  me  to- 
morrow morning,  Rue  FErmitage,  near  the  court 
des  Herves  at  the  corner,  as  you  turn  up.  Ask 
for  Mademoiselle  Henriette.  I  am  well  known. 
Everybody  knows  me." 

The  girl  stood  still,  looking  after  Henriette, 
who  disappeared  up  the  dark  staircase,  feeling  like 
one  raised  from  the  dead.  For  three  days  she 
had  been  roaming  about  on  her  sad  quest,  and 
this  was  the  first  word  of  sympathy,  the  first 
glimpse  of  hope  that  had  been  vouchsafed  her. 
It  was  such  balm  to  her  that  she  listened  in  dis- 
trust and  fear  lest  some  one  should  return  and 
say:  " We  find  there  is  no  place  for  you.  The  va- 
cancies are  filled.  The  season  is  drawing  to  a 
close."  But  no  one  came. 

Henriette  on  her  way  back  to  the  workroom 
had  to  pass  Madame  Clemence's  rooms;  the  lat- 
ter, wondering  at  all  the  running  to  and  fro, 
opened  her  door  and  said  severely: 

" What  is  the  matter?" 

Then,  recognizing  her  best  hand,  she  continued 
in  quite  a  different  tone  of  voice : 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mademoiselle  Henriette?" 

Madame  Clemence  had  a  natural  tact  which 
stood  her  in  lieu  of  education.  Although  hardly 
forty  years  of  age,  her  hair  was  quite  gray,  though 
her  complexion  retained  its  freshness  and  she  was 
always  severely  clad  in  a  dress  of  black  silk,  with 


REDEMPTION  35 

a  mauve  or  brown  bodice  according  to  the  season. 
This  simplicity  of  attire  was  as  grateful  to  the 
customers  as  the  rich  fittings  of  the  showrooms, 
for  they  felt  that  everything  was  done  to  please 
them.  Her  hair  powdered,  and  turned  off  her 
face  over  a  high  fan-shaped  puff,  which  made  her 
look  like  a  marquise  in  one  of  the  fashion  plates, 
also  suited  their  taste.  She  spoke  little  and  in  a 
correct  tone  of  voice.  But  the  real  secret  of  her 
success  was  the  unmistakable  intelligence  she 
displayed,  and  the  infallibility  of  her  judgment, 
which  was  not  delivered  without  a  certain  conde- 
scension. Her  verdict  once  passed,  "This  is  ex- 
actly the  hat  to  suit  you,  Madame  la  Baronne, 
this  and  no  other,"  there  was  no  further  resistance 
possible,  and  one's  own  will  and  preference  gave 
in  without  a  struggle.  She  looked  like  an  art  critic, 
pronouncing  on  the  merits  of  a  portrait.  And 
she  was  in  a  secondary  sense  an  artist,  with  a  per- 
fect knowledge  of  combining  flattery  with  per- 
suasive authority.  The  woman  was  not  without 
kindness  of  heart,  nor  without  remembrance  of 
her  own  early  condition,  for  she  had  been  only 
a  simple  milliner's  hand  when  she  married  her 
husband,  a  rich  commercial  traveller,  whom  no- 
body ever  saw,  and  she  was  ready,  in  words  at 
least,  to  take  a  maternal  interest  in  those  under 
her.  She  understood  the  shades  of  feeling  that 
were  of  so  much  moment  in  the  management  of 
these  young  girls,  half  ladies  themselves,  who 
were  poor,  nervous,  extremely  excitable,  and  in 
whom  any  individual  fancy  was  to  be  encouraged 
as  a  precious  gift.  She  smiled,  therefore,  as  she 


36  REDEMPTION 

recognized  Henriette,  who  immediately  resumed 
her  self-contained  manner,  and  answered: 

"It  was  some  one  who  came  after  work." 

"You  told  her  there  was  none?" 

"I  told  her  that  the  season  was  far  advanced 
and  that  there  was  very  little  chance." 

"No  chance,  you  should  have  said." 

"She  has  such  splendid  hair,  Madame.  She 
would  make  more  than  a  presentable  model  for 
trying-on." 

"I  had  no  thought,  as  you  know,  of  replacing 
Mademoiselle  Dorothe*e,  when  she  left  me  after 
the  races." 

"Any  hat  would  look  well  on  such  a  head  as 
that."  ' 

Madame  Clemence  laughed. 

"But  the  trouble  is  that  there  will  be  no  hats 
to  try  on.  In  five  or  six  months,  if  there  was 
need.  ..." 

"In  five  or  six  months  she  will  be  dead,"  said 
Henriette,  gravely,  looking  down  at  the  toes  of 
her  boots. 

"Oh,  dead!" 

"Yes,  Madame.  She  is  without  food,  that  is 
certain,  since  she  has  hardly  a  boot  to  her  foot. 
She  is  a  stranger  to  me.  I  only  saw  her  for  a 
minute,  but  she  is  just  the  sort  of  girl  to  go  and 
kill  herself,  of  that  I  am  sure." 

"You  think  so,  really?  She  seemed  an  inter- 
esting girl,  then?" 

"Yes,  Madame,  very  interesting;  I  should  be 
so  glad  if  you  could " 

"Could  what?" 


REDEMPTION  37 

"Just  take  her  on  trial,  for  two  or  three  weeks." 

The  employer  reflected  a  moment.  She  must 
have  been  in  an  extra  good  humour,  for  she  an- 
swered : 

"What  a  little  artiste  you  are!  I  have  noticed 
before  now  that  you  had  your  proteges  among  the 
poor.  What  is  the  name  of  this  one?" 

"Marie  Schwarz." 

"Very  well,  then,  let  Mademoiselle  Marie  come. 
I  have  really  no  need  of  her,  but  I  will  take  her  in 
to  please  you.  Bring  her  to  me  on  Monday."  To 
herself  she  added:  "I  am  anxious  to  keep  friends 
with  such  a  good  worker  as  I  have  in  you,  whom 
I  intend  one  day  to  make  my  forewoman." 

Henriette  looked  up  and  smiled;  her  eyes  were 
almost  blue  when  she  was  pleased. 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  she  said,  with  emotion. 
"I  am  glad.  I  will  explain  things  to  her.  She 
shall  sit  beside  me,  and  you  will  see  what  I  shall 
make  of  her."  And  with  the  faintest  of  bows,  she 
left  Madame  Clemence  and  returned  to  the  work- 
room. She  found  most  of  her  fellow-workers  pre- 
paring to  depart,  taking  down  their  coats  and 
searching  for  ties  and  umbrellas  in  the  cupboard; 
two  or  three,  however,  with  flushed  faces,  were 
still  seated,  struggling  over  their  last  stitches. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  all  hurrying  out 
past  the  cashier's  deserted  box.  The  ravages  of 
fatigue  on  these  poor  young  faces  of  eighteen  and 
twenty  were  not  visible  in  the  dim  light  that  fell 
from  the  lowered  gas  jet,  and  already  the  eyes  were 
beginning  to  brighten  with  a  sense  of  relief.  A 
fresh  current  of  air  met  them  as  they  descended 


38  REDEMPTION 

the  stairs;  the  sudden  change  of  atmosphere 
seemed  almost  to  take  the  breath  away  from  some 
of  them.  Mademoiselle  Augustine  was  obliged  to 
pause  a  moment  and  take  hold  of  the  side-rail.  The 
apprentice  leaped  down  the  stairs.  She  was  the 
only  one  whose  petticoats  were  not  long  enough 
to  require  lifting.  Those  in  front  waited  when 
they  reached  the  street  to  say  good-night  to  the 
others :  this  simple  leave-taking  was  no  particular 
mark  of  affection,  or  of  politeness,  but  one  of  the 
established  customs  among  this  fraternity  of  girl 
workers.  "Good-night,  Mademoiselle  Augustine," 
" good-night,  Inna,"  "good-night,  Mathilde," 
"good-night,  Mademoiselle  Lucie";  and  these 
prettily  murmured  farewells  over,  they  all  quickly 
dispersed.  Four  of  the  girls  turned  to  the  left, 
toward  the  Place  Bretagne,  the  others  in  the 
direction  of  Ville-en-Bois,  or  the  quays,  or,  like 
Henriette,  toward  the  steep  street  known  as  de 
I'Ermitage  or  de  Miseri.  The  little  group  of  mil- 
liners hastening  home  through  the  thin  mist  that 
rose  from  the  Loire  were  soon  scattered  among 
the  different  quarters  of  the  town,  calling  out  a  last 
quick  good-night,  as  one  by  one  they  separated 
from  the  others  at  the  cross-ways.  Work  was  no 
longer  their  chief  thought.  They  were  tired,  and 
longing  for  home,  for  bed,  for  the  night  that 
brought  sleep — and  they  hurried  on  their  way. 
Having  reached  the  quays,  Henriette  Madiot 
turned  along  the  pathway  that  ran  beside  the 
railway  line,  fearing  to  meet  any  of  the  sailors 
who  frequented  the  cafes  on  the  other  side. 
To  the  left,  darkly  outlined  against  the  stars, 


REDEMPTION  39 

rose  the  masts  of  ships,  rocking,  as  they  lay  side 
by  side,  in  measured  motion,  the  last  rhythm  of 
the  sea  which  came  there  to  die.  Those  lofty 
masts  of  brigs  and  schooners  were  voyaging  still. 
Henriette  looked  at  them,  and  felt  herself  already 
at  home.  The  old  street  she  lived  in  ran  uphill 
from  a  spot  just  beyond  the  harbour  station,  and 
had  houses  on  one  side  only,  as  far  as  it  reached 
to  the  top  of  the  slope.  It  was  deserted  at  this 
hour,  and  even  the  small  boys  were  no  longer 
swinging  on  the  iron  cross-bars  of  the  railings. 
Half-way  up  the  road  curved  back  a  little,  and  the 
houses  which  projected  at  this  point  were  stand- 
ing out  in  the  full  light  of  the  moon,  which  shone 
with  especial  brilliance  on  one  narrow  tenement, 
situated  just  at  the  spot  where  the  road  turned, 
and  so  tightly  squeezed  between  its  neighbours 
that  it  looked  as  if  it  had  only  been  able  to  grow 
in  height.  How  its  white  walls  glistened  in  the 
moonlight!  It  might  have  been  taken  for  the 
house  of  a  harbour-master,  or  for  one  of  the  old 
square  lighthouses,  or  for  a  church-tower  that  had 
been  whitewashed  so  as  to  serve  as  a  beacon  to 
sailors.  It  had  an  air  of  importance,  of  beauty, 
almost  of  youth,  the  more  so  that  at  its  feet  lay 
the  long  shadows  of  the  acacia  trees  planted  in 
the  rock  on  the  other  side  of  the  way  for  the  sake 
of  the  poorer  people  of  the  suburb.  Henriette 
smiled  as  she  caught  sight  of  it.  She  had  loved  it 
ever  since  she  lived  in  it,  and  she  had  lived  in  it 
now  for  many  years.  With  her  artistic  sense,  the 
smile  was  brought  more  quickly  to  her  face  by 
things  than  by  persons.  Looking  toward  the 


40  REDEMPTION 

house  she  saw  that  there  was  no  light  at  the  win- 
dow of  her  own  room,  but  that  the  oleander  hi  the 
balcony  under  the  roof  glistened  like  a  bush  of 
silver. 

She  paused  in  the  road  before  going  in.  The 
air  was  unusually  mild,  and  the  whole  valley  of 
the  Loire  lay  filled  with  mist  and  perfume,  carried 
thither  by  the  west  wind  that  blew  softly  and 
steadily,  without  bringing  a  ripple  to  the  surface 
of  the  sluggish  water  that  cradled  the  sleeping 
moonbeams.  With  it  was  mingled  the  scent  from 
the  ripe  hay-fields.  "We  shall  have  a  lovely  day 
to-morrow !"  Not  a  cloud  was  to  be  seen.  A 
smack,  with  a  red  light  at  its  prow,  was  slowly 
approaching  from  the  further  side  of  the  river. 
Henriette  turned,  walked  up  to  the  door,  and 
went  in. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


SHE  had  grown  fond  of  the  neighbourhood  and  of 
the  house  and  street.  Her  best  memories  were 
bounded  by  them.  She  had  spent  her  earliest 
youth  at  Chantenay,  the  district  adjoining  the 
plateau  of  Miseri.  She  remembered  a  road,  black 
with  coal,  in  which  shoes  sank  to  the  ankle  in 
dust  or  mud;  a  low  dwelling  with  no  upper  story; 
a  sweet-faced  woman,  her  mother,  very  fair  and 
very  silent,  who  sat  in  the  same  window-seat  from 
morning  till  night,  making  coarse  linen  shirts  for 
the  sailors — a  figure  of  suffering  and  resignation, 
whose  distant,  almost  forgotten  features  she  re- 
called with  difficulty.  Henriette  remembered  no 
walks  in  woods  or  fields,  no  Sunday  holiday  when 
parents  and  children  walked  hand  in  hand ;  noth- 
ing but  the  walk  from  home  to  the  school  kept  by 
the  Sisters,  and  the  walk  back  with  her  little 
basket  emptied  of  bread  and  apples,  in  which  the 
ball  of  wool  for  her  cosy-work  rolled  about.  She 
wondered  sometimes  when  she  thought  of  the 
past.  She  was  very  young  when  she  lost  her 
mother.  She  would  say  to  herself:  "I  must  have 
her  hair  and  complexion,  and  a  little  of  her  re- 
serve. I  keep  my  troubles  to  myself,  and  do  not 
show  my  heart  even  to  those  I  love.  I  have  often 
heard  that  my  mother  was  pretty  when  she  was 
twenty,  but  she  was  very  worn  when  I  knew  her. 

41 


42  REDEMPTION 

What  I  remember  best  is  her  smile;  it  always 
seemed  to  be  saying  good-by." 

She  seldom  thought  of  her  father,  who  died 
some  months  later,  and  reproached  herself  for  it 
as  ungrateful;  but  she  had  known  still  less  of 
him.  Prosper  Madiot  was  one  of  the  countless 
multitude  of  men  incapable  of  skilled  labour. 
He  was  a  navvy  hired  by  the  day  or  month,  a 
simple  labourer  with  a  rough  voice  and  a  vague 
and  sluggish  mind,  sometimes  shaken  by  violent 
awakenings.  They  made  an  ill-assorted  couple, 
he  and  his  delicate,  dreamy  wife,  who  always 
obeyed  him  with  a  kind  of  deep  and  sad  humility, 
so  that  the  children,  as  they  grew  up,  suffered  at 
the  memory  of  such  submission.  Every  night  he 
would  come  in,  call  for  his  soup,  eat  it,  and  go  out 
again  to  the  " Society,"  where  he  drank  a  little 
and  smoked  while  he  watched  others  play.  In  the 
morning  he  was  out  before  Henriette  was  up. 

For  Henriette,  gayety,  liberty,  and  life  dated 
from  one  winter  evening,  when  she,  a  dishevelled 
child  of  ten,  worn  out  with  crying,  but  already 
consoled  by  strange  sights  and  faces,  left  the 
house  at  Chantenay  with  her  Uncle  Eloi.  He  led 
by  the  hand  her  little  brother  a  pale  boy  of  seven, 
who  let  himself  be  dragged  along.  She  walked  on 
the  other  side,  and  whenever  she  raised  her  eyes 
she  could  see  her  uncle's  thick  gray  moustache 
miles  above  her.  They  would  have  gone  any- 
where with  him.  Their  mother  and  father  were 
dead,  and  the  children  followed  their  uncle,  the 
only  relation  they  had  left.  They  followed  trust- 
ingly, for  he  had  said,  "Come  with  me,  children! 


REDEMPTION  43 

Better  not  sleep  here."  Henriette  was  wrapped 
in  a  white  woollen  shawl  which  covered  her  head 
like  a  hood;  Antoine  was  lost  in  an  overcoat 
much  too  big  for  him,  which  his  uncle  had  bought 
for  him  second-hand.  The  wind  blew  down  the 
Loire,  freezing  the  mist  upon  the  ships'  cables  and 
masts,  and  on  the  beard  of  the  old  soldier,  as  he 
said,  "I  have  only  one  bed  for  both  of  you,  but 
there  will  be  two  to-morrow."  Pedestrians  passed 
like  black  shadows  about  this  remainder  of  a 
family — two  little  children  and  an  old  uncle. 
"  You  shall  see  what  fine  pictures  there  are  on  the 
walls,"  he  went  on,  hoping  to  amuse  the  little 
orphans  he  was  taking  with  him,  "the  Emperor, 
and  Marechal  Bugeaud,  and  the  Taking  of  Algiers 
.  .  .  but  you  mustn't  touch  them,  children;  I 
value  my  pictures  as  much  as  my  discharge. 
Then  there  is  a  shell  in  which  the  sea  rolls  and 
never  gets  tired."  They  both  looked  with  vague 
admiration  at  Uncle  Madiot,  who  walked  rather 
fast,  very  tall,  with  his  chest  well  out,  as  if  used 
to  carrying  his  knapsack,  and  his  moustache,  that 
looked  as  if  it  were  cut  in  stone  against  his  clean- 
shaven cheek.  In  the  silence  of  the  sleeping  port 
their  humble  destinies  drifted  toward  the  un- 
known shelter.  The  children  smiled,  still  shaken 
now  and  then  by  an  unconscious  sob.  The  Her- 
mitage showed  clear  against  the  sky,  its  pale 
front  higher  than  the  masts  of  the  schooners, 
perched  upon  the  peaked  summit  of  the  bare  cliff 
and  seeming  to  lean  over  the  abyss.  "  There  is 
the  nest,"  said  Uncle  Eloi;  and  the  children 
thought,  "Here  is  bedtime  coming  and  a  white 


44  REDEMPTION 

pillow,  and  the  end  of  the  walk  in  the  cold  wind," 
and  they  hurried  along,  crushing  the  bits  of  coal 
on  the  quays  with  their  ill-shod  feet. 

There  Henriette  had  grown  up,  spoilt  by  her 
uncle,  adopted  by  the  whole  neighbourhood,  and 
growing  so  familiar  with  the  people  and  their  sur- 
roundings that  she  sometimes  fancied  she  had 
been  born  among  them. 

It  was  a  vast  and  densely-populated  world, 
bounded  on  one  side  by  the  rue  de  PErmitage  and 
on  the  other  by  the  narrow  street  of  King  Baco. 
The  first  row  of  houses,  almost  regular,  hid  a 
second  row  of  narrow  courts  and  huts  built  upon 
the  side  of  the  cliff,  surrounded  by  tiny  fenced 
gardens,  where  reigned  an  everlasting  odour  of, 
washing.  Old  people  were  not  wanting,  and  chil- 
dren swarmed.  There  was  an  ancient  and  aristo- 
cratic population  which  had  dwelt  there  for  half  a 
century  or  more,  and  wandering  colonies,  game 
which  the  bailiff  hunts  from  place  to  place  like  a 
bloodhound  in  the  field  of  misery,  a  pitiful  band 
without  friends,  or  the  time  to  make  any,  or  to 
deplore  the  want  of  them.  Henriette  had  gone 
among  them  at  an  early  age,  and,  poor  as  she 
was,  found  others  poorer  than  herself.  They  had 
helped  her  to  feel  happy  by  comparison. 

Oh,  the  lesson  of  such  districts !  and  the  yearn- 
ing pity  they  teach  the  heart  for  ever!  Little 
Henriette  had  seen  suffering  around  her,  and  her 
naturally  tender  heart  opened  to  compassion. 
Almost  before  she  could  understand,  she  had  the 
tender  smile  which  is  like  a  distant  caress.  The 
little  boys  lying  along  the  balustrades,  as  they 


REDEMPTION  45 

watched  her  on  her  way  to  school,  rather  tall,  in 
her  short  dress,  and  caught  the  maternal  glance 
she  cast  upon  them,  would  call  out,  "  Good-morn- 
ing, Mademoiselle."  She  did  not  stop  nor  speak 
to  them.  They  loved  her  at  sight,  and  old  men 
did  the  same. 

At  her  uncle's  wish  she  nad  continued  to  attend 
the  school  kept  by  the  Dames  de  la  Sagesse  on 
Miseri  hill  for  four  years,  while  the  boy  went  to 
the  municipal  school  of  the  district.  The  old 
soldier  followed  a  good  impulse  when  he  said  to 
Henriette,  "Keep  on  with  your  schooling,  little 
one,  and  train  your  mind.  You  will  have  time 
enough  to  use  your  needle  afterward."  As  a 
soldier  who  had  spent  a  third  of  his  life  herding 
with  other  men,  and  listening  to  their  conversa- 
tions, and  who  had  lived  in  fancy  through  all  the 
light,  infamous,  or  merely  silly  stories  that  go  the 
round  of  military  cafe's,  he  knew  that  it  was  best 
not  to  throw  too  soon  an  impressionable  child  like 
Henriette  into  the  corruption  of  the  workrooms. 
Thanks  to  him,  Henriette  lived  a  comparatively 
sheltered  life  during  the  four  years  between  ten 
and  fourteen,  when  the  intelligence  expands  and 
takes  possession  of  a  character  already  formed. 
She  remained  very  innocent,  and  therefore  merry, 
but  with  an  underlying  seriousness,  and  she  had 
cultivated  her  mind  as  much  as  is  possible  for  a  girl 
of  her  station  and  surroundings.  "The  child  loves 
reading,"  said  the  Sister  Superior  in  answer  to 
Madiot's  inquiries.  ' ' She  has  a  taste  for  learning." 
And  these  humble  women  had  taught  her  all  they 
knew  of  arithmetic,  geography,  and  history,  and 


46  REDEMPTION 

a  great  deal  in  the  way  of  needlework,  darning, 
and  even  embroidery. 

As  she  grew  up  a  mysterious  power  developed 
itself  in  her.  The  power  of  virginity,  which  is  like 
another  soul,  the  influence  of  which  is  felt  in 
everything;  in  smiles  and  glance,  in  words,  and  in 
the  gesture  of  the  proffered  hand;  the  influence 
of  that  which  is  gentle,  but  awe-inspiring,  that 
knows  no  evil  but  guesses  at  its  pitfalls;  of  vir- 
ginity which  dies  at  a  thought,  against  which  all 
the  luxury  of  the  world  is  arrayed,  but  which 
passes  unscathed  through  all,  signed  with  the  sign 
of  God.  Yes,  Henriette  had  this  virginal  charm 
which  all  little  schoolgirls  have  not,  so  that  the 
boys  called  her  " Mademoiselle"  though  she  was 
as  poor  as  the  rest,  and  her  uncle,  when  she  raised 
her  clear  eyes  to  his,  saying,  "I  knew  my  lessons 
well,"  felt  an  emotion  he  had  never  felt  before,  and 
said  to  himself,  "I  must  take  good  care  of  her!" 

He  would  put  on  a  ferocious  air  if  he  saw  a 
sailor  or  passer-by  glance  at  her  with  evident 
admiration  when  they  were  out  together.  He 
would  hurry  away  from  Lemarie's  factory  at  the 
end  of  the  day,  so  as  to  get  back  to  his  child,  and 
would  never  accept  an  invitation  to  spend  the 
evening  with  friends.  Sometimes  he  would  preach 
her  a  little  sermon,  short  and  enigmatic,  as  befits 
an  old  soldier.  "You  are  my  glory,"  he  would 
say,  "and  you  see,  Henriette,  glory  is  like  the 
barrel  of  a  rifle,  there  must  be  nothing  to  say 
against  it,  absolutely  nothing."  But  all  this  was 
not  of  much  account — the  girl's  best  safeguard 
was  his  love  for  her. 


REDEMPTION  47 

On  this  score  he  was  beyond  reproach.  For  her 
sake  he  almost  became  sober,  he  economized,  and 
he  broke  off  with  old  comrades,  who  were  all  very 
well  for  himself,  but  who  might  have  shocked  the 
child;  he  was  even  weak  enough  to  learn  a  little 
cooking.  Was  it  not  almost  necessary?  Henri- 
ette  had  just  been  apprenticed.  She  was  rather 
tall  for  her  age,  and  so  tired  when  she  came  back 
from  the  workroom  at  almost  eight  o'clock  at 
night!  He  was  free  himself  at  half-past  six,  and 
he  thought:  "If  I  make  haste  out  of  the  factory 
at  Gloriette  Island,  even  if  I  linger  to  walk  home 
with  a  friend,  I  am  home  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  before  the  child.  Why  shouldn't  I  cook  her 
supper?  It  would  be  much  nicer  than  for  each  of 
us  to  get  supper  separately  at  the  tea-shop.  A 
little  spoiling  does  one  good  at  that  age."  And  he 
did  spoil  her.  He  took  lessons  from  Mother 
Logeret,  their  neighbour  on  the  first  floor,  who 
had  been  cook  at  a  chateau,  and  his  regimental 
experiences  helped  him  as  well.  So  it  happened 
that  every  night  when  Henriette  opened  the  door 
of  her  uncle's  flat,  she  found  the  table  laid,  two 
earthenware  plates  keeping  warm  on  the  stove, 
and  the  old  man  waiting  in  his  chair  with  the  in- 
variable greeting,  "How  late  you  are,  child!" 

The  care  which  won  him  the  affection  of  Hen- 
riette had  at  first  been  lavished  upon  Antoine  as 
well.  He  had  tried  to  keep  the  balance  equal 
between  the  brother  and  sister.  But  Antoine  had 
such  a  strange  character,  he  was  so  unaffection- 
ate,  so  unreliable!  He  was  remarkably  intelli- 
gent and  skilful,  but  his  pride  brooked  neither 


48  REDEMPTION 

correction  nor  reprimand.  At  first  he  accepted 
the  authority  of  Uncle  Madiot,  but  even  at  an  age 
when  children  generally  understand  the  reasons 
for  their  dependence,  his  submission  was  still 
purely  physical.  It  was  impossible  to  win  the 
confidence  of  the  inquisitive-looking  boy,  who 
knew  every  one  and  everything  that  went  on  in 
the  neighbourhood.  It  was  his  ambition  to 
escape  from  all  authority. 

At  an  early  age  he  also  went  to  work  at  the 
Lemarie  factory.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  when  he 
was  fifteen,  he  left  the  factory,  and  the  house  in 
the  rue  de  1'Ermitage,  rented  a  garret  in  the  town, 
and  apprenticed  himself  to  an  engine-fitter. 
Ever  since,  the  tie  between  him  and  Henriette 
and  the  old  man  had  been  nearly  broken.  Not 
only  did  he  cease  to  take  part  in  their  family  life, 
but  he  never  climbed  the  staircase  of  the  house 
where  his  sister  and  uncle  lived.  When  he  met 
them  in  the  street  he  would  talk  to  them  for  a 
few  moments,  excuse  himself  on  the  score  of  busi- 
ness, and  escape. 

This  sudden,  inexplicable  departure  and  atti- 
tude of  silent  hostility,  which  Henriette's  ad- 
vances, entreaties,  and  tender  reproaches  could 
not  overcome,  were  the  young  girl's  greatest  grief. 
Luckily  she  was  ignorant  of  their  motive,  for  that 
motive  was  herself. 

Antoine  had  heard  the  history  of  his  own  fam- 
ily by  chance  one  day  when  he  was  drinking  in  the 
public-house  with  an  overseer  of  the  factory,  a 
man  whom  wine  made  talkative.  The  story  was 
more  than  twenty  years  old;  it  resembled  many 


REDEMPTION  49 

others,  alas,  unknown  or  vaguely  suspected, 
which  threaten  shame  and  danger  to  the  poor 
alone.  Her  mother  at  that  time  was  a  pretty, 
little,  pink  and  white  work-girl.  She  had  come 
from  Quimperle,  where  they  are  rather  flighty, 
with  her  grandmother,  Madame  Melier,  to  earn 
a  livelihood  in  the  celebrated  city  of  Nantes.  As 
it  was  then  the  end  of  spring  she  soon  found  a  place 
among  the  four  hundred  women  employed  to 
shell  peas  for  M.  Lemari^'s  preserve  factory. 
They  were  a  queer  crowd,  assembled  in  a  hurry. 
They  thought  nothing  of  laughing  at  the  easy 
morals  of  the  master,  who  often  passed  through 
their  midst;  rather  a  good-looking  man,  young 
enough  still,  and  so  rich,  so  rich!  They  named 
as  those  who  had  been  his  mistresses,  several  of 
the  prettiest.  Jacqueline  Melier  was  almost  flat- 
tered when  it  was  her  turn  to  attract  his  attention. 

A  sheller  of  peas,  a  poor  girl,  an  unprotected 
stranger,  and  rather  vain;  she  was  a  very  easy 
conquest.  He  won  her  like  the  rest — at  the  cost 
of  a  few  compliments  and  gilt  brooches,  and  a 
little  money. 

But  almost  directly  the  adventure  turned  out 
badly.  Only  a  few  weeks  had  elapsed  when 
Jacqueline  Melier  found  that  she  was  enceinte. 
All  would  be  known,  her  dishonour  would  be 
made  public,  her  shame  ineffaceable.  She  sought 
her  seducer,  and  fell  at  his  feet  imploring  him 
to  save  her.  He  gave  her  two  thousand  francs. 
For  that  sum  a  poor  workman,  who  had  come 
down  from  the  hills  of  Brest  in  search  of  bread, 
was  found  willing  to  marry  the  girl.  The  child 


50  REDEMPTION 

was  born  six  months  after  the  marriage;  she  was 
Henriette  Madiot. 

Her  mother  never  consoled  herself  for  her  sin, 
she  died  of  it  slowly,  consumed  by  the  sight  of  the 
growing  child,  whom  she  adored.  No  human  be- 
ing more  carefully  educated  or  of  a  more  complex 
nature  could  have  been  wiser  in  the  art  of  self- 
torture.  She  had  no  other  thought  for  ten  years. 
The  humble,  gentle,  resigned  woman  who  sat 
sewing  all  day  in  the  corner  of  the  window  seat, 
had  her  remorse  always  in  sight,  and  thought  of 
nothing  else. 

All  her  life  and  strength  were  spent  in  trying  to 
get  others  to  forget  what  she  could  never  forget 
herself.  Directly  after  her  marriage  she  said  to 
her  brother-in-law,  Eloi  Madiot : 

"I  beseech  you  to  stay  at  Lemarie's  factory. 
If  you  stay  on,  you,  the  old  soldier,  who,  as  every- 
one knows,  values  his  honour,  evil  gossip  will  die 
out.  Promise  me  to  stay.  Never  let  the  child 
know!  Nor  the  others  if  there  should  be  any!" 

He  promised  her,  and  kept  his  place  as  a  packer 
in  the  factory.  Later  on,  wishing  to  lull  suspi- 
cion, Eloi  Madiot  put  Antoine  to  work  with  him 
in  the  factory.  And  perhaps  because  of  the  atti- 
tude of  Madiot,  who  was  feared,  and  his  repeated 
denials,  dishonour  was  avoided  and  gossip  was  soon 
silenced. 

At  present,  in  this  world  of  the  poor,  every  one 
had  forgotten  the  story.  The  parents  were  dead, 
the  former  workmen  dispersed;  the  children  had 
grown  up  elsewhere,  in  their  uncle's  house;  Hen- 
riette belonged  to  a  higher  class  of  workers;  she 


REDEMPTION  51 

was  nearly  twenty-four  years  old,  and  her  brother 
was  twenty-one. 

Unfortunately  Antoine  knew  of  this  sad  past. 
It  bred  in  him  a  lively  and  almost  universal 
hatred.  Against  Henriette,  in  the  first  place,  the 
intruder,  whose  beauty,  distinction  and  happy 
life  excited  his  jealousy;  he  resented  the  place 
she  had  usurped  in  the  Madiot  household,  and  the 
caresses  which  he  now  remembered  had  been  lav- 
ished upon  her.  He  often  passed  her  in  the  streets 
of  Nantes.  Generally  he  would  greet  her  with  a 
mocking  bow,  or  point  her  out  to  a  comrade,  say- 
ing: "Look  at  that  princess!  isn't  she  smart? 
Would  any  one  think  we  had  been  brought  up 
together?"  Sometimes,  when  he  was  alone,  he 
would  stop  her,  always  to  ask  for  money.  He 
earned  good  wages,  but  he  spent  all  he  earned 
and  more  with  women,  or  with  his  comrades  at 
public  balls.  And  when  he  was  short  of  money, 
he  demanded  it  without  shame  of  Henriette. 
"She  owes  it  to  me,"  he  thought,  "she  had  more 
than  her  share  at  home."  The  young  girl  gave  it 
to  him,  even  depriving  herself  to  do  so,  because 
she  hoped  to  win  him  back. 

He  had  a  grudge  against  his  Uncle  Eloi,  for  be- 
ing under  the  influence  of  Henriette,  for  having 
put  him  to  work  at  the  Lemarie  factory,  and 
for  having  stayed  on  there  himself.  The  se- 
cret lay  between  them,  and  each  one  kept  it  to 
himself,  because  their  meetings  were  rare  and 
casual;  because  Eloi  Madiot  never  thought  it 
possible  that  Antoine  could  have  heard  of  these 
remote  events,  and  would  never  have  been  so 


52  REDEMPTION 

imprudent  as  to  question  him;  and  because,  in 
spite  of  all  his  faults,  in  spite  of  his  ill-regulated 
mind  and  disorderly  life,  in  spite  of  what  he  had 
heard,  Antoine,  who  had  no  affection  for  any 
living  being,  had  remained  faithful  to  the  mother 
who  bore  him.  To  spare  her,  he  was  capable  of 
holding  his  tongue.  He  said  nothing,  but  his 
anger  turned  against  the  master,  his  son,  and  his 
family,  against  all  masters  in  general,  his  own  and 
those  of  others,  all  implicated  to  his  mind  in  the 
sin  of  one.  Speeches  heard  at  public  meetings, 
conversation,  and  reading  had  all  contributed  to 
that  end.  Antoine  was  enrolled  in  the  army  of 
hatred  and  revolt,  among  the  obscure  who  play 
no  part.  Like  many  another  he  had  not  been 
driven  to  it  by  any  doctrine,  but  by  hidden  per- 
sonal resentment.  The  words  fell  upon  his 
wound,  reopened  and  poisoned  it  like  the  dust  of 
iron  filings.  All  his  ideas  were  but  vague  words 
concealing  a  well-defined  grudge. 

Henriette  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  She  led  an 
almost  easy  life ;  she  was  fond  of  her  work,  of  her 
home,  and  of  her  own  room,  which  was  like  a 
chapel  in  its  silence.  To-night  in  going  upstairs 
she  felt  more  keenly  than  usual  the  pleasant  sense 
that  shelter  gives  to  those  who  are  familiar  with 
bad  weather.  How  often  had  she  gone  up  and 
down  the  wooden  stairs  so  worn  at  the  edges,  so 
pointed  and  narrow  at  the  side  of  the  corkscrew 
banisters!  There  were  red  tiles  on  the  first  land- 
ing, a  door-mat  and  a  copper  bell-handle,  Madame 
Logeret's  flat.  Another  flight  of  stairs,  another 
door-mat  and  a  hare's  foot  at  the  end  of  a  cord ; 


REDEMPTION  53 

Henriette  pushed  open  the  door  and  went  in.  A 
loud  hoarse  voice  called  out: 

"Overtime  again  to-night!  They  are  trying  to 
kill  you." 

"Oh,  no,  uncle!  The  daughter  of  the  Marquise 
du  Muel  is  going  to  be  married;  her  hats  must  be 
finished,"  she  answered,  laughing. 

"The  Marquise,  oh,  dear  me,  yes!" 

Eloi  Madiot  often  repeated  the  words  of  his 
interlocutors.  It  was  just  an  old  soldier's  trick 
and  generally  meant  nothing.  But  this  time 
Madiot  had  an  idea,  as  the  girl  kissed  him  and 
passed  into  the  next  room,  her  own  pretty  room, 
to  put  away  her  hat,  gloves,  and  sunshade;  in 
repeating  the  word  "marquise"  he  meant  to  im- 
ply: "I  only  know  one,  and  that's  you,  my  little 
girl,  whom  I  have  brought  up.  You  are  worth 
the  lot  of  them  in  grace  and  beauty;  I  am  glad 
to  see  you  again."  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  door  through  which  Henriette  had  just 
passed. 

He  was  seated  beside  the  little  stove  which  had 
been  fixed  in  the  fire-place.  On  the  high  mantel- 
piece above  it  burned  a  small  petroleum  lamp, 
which  threw  down  a  cone  of  crude  light  taking  in 
the  chair  on  which  Madiot  was  seated,  the  table 
on  which  Henriette's  supper  was  laid,  and  a  few 
of  the  cracked  tiles.  The  old  man  had  white  hair, 
a  brick-red  face,  and  a  thick  chapped  nose.  Un- 
der his  white  hair  and  eyebrows,  and  between  the 
hairs  of  his  moustache,  the  red  colouring  showed 
here  and  there,  like  the  strokes  of  a  paint-brush. 
Madiot  was  like  one  of  those  old  shepherds  whose 


54  REDEMPTION 

bodies  have  been  hardened  and  chapped  all  over 
by  the  mountain  wind.  Before  he  left  the  regi- 
ment, he  had  an  air  of  lassitude  and  passivity. 
He  was  the  man  who  has  always  obeyed.  His 
thoughts  waked  slowly,  but  often  his  eyes  would 
grow  moist  at  a  word,  showing  that  this  man  of 
untrained  mind  had  tenderness  and  even  delicacy 
of  heart. 

At  this  moment  he  was  moved  by  Henrlette's 
arrival.  He  had  not  risen  to  kiss  her  as  usual,  be- 
cause of  his  wounded  left  hand,  which  had  been 
nearly  crushed  five  weeks  before,  by  the  fall  of  a 
pile  of  full  packing  cases.  He  wore  his  arm  in  a 
sling,  supported  by  a  red  cotton  handkerchief 
pinned  to  his  coat.  But  the  girl's  arrival  had 
been  sufficient  to  banish  all  thought  of  the  long 
day  spent  alone  with  his  pain.  Bending  forward 
he  listened  to  the  sound  of  Henriette's  steps  on 
the  boards  (for  there  was  a  wooden  flooring  to  her 
room),  to  the  sound  of  a  hat-pin  falling  into  a 
glass  jar,  and  the  rustle  of  a  silk  lining  thrown  over 
the  back  of  a  chair. 

"How  are  you  to-night,  uncle?" 

"A  little  better,  my  dear,  now  you  are  here!" 

His  solitary  suffering  was  at  an  end. 

Close  to  Madiot  the  line  cast  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp  shone  upon  the  tiled  floor,  and  beyond  that 
little  corner  of  warmth  and  light  the  room  showed 
almost  bare,  furnished  only  on  the  right  by  a 
wooden  bedstead  with  red  curtains,  decorated 
with  a  pair  of  woollen  epaulettes,  a  lithograph 
representing  Napoleon  I,  Napoleon  III,  and  the 
Prince  Imperial  in  the  same  crown  of  laurels;  an- 


REDEMPTION  55 

other  lithograph  of  Marechal  Bugeaud;  and  an- 
other whose  chief  feature  was  the  smoke  round 
some  ships  bombarding  a  town;  this  represented 
the  Taking  of  Algiers.  Further  on  was  a  framed 
certificate,  his  discharge  from  military  service; 
fourteen  years  of  good  conduct,  without  a  report. 
The  light  faded  gradually  from  the  walls.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  room  a  square  of  dark  blue  flecked 
with  gold,  where  the  open  window  showed  the 
sky. 

The  girl  reappeared,  setting  with  her  fingers  the 
stray  locks  of  golden  hair  loosened  by  her  walk. 
The  charming  gesture  made  a  singular  contrast 
with  the  humble  room  and  the  old  soldier. 

"I  have  seen  Antoine,"  said  her  uncle. 

"Ah!    Did  he  come  here?" 

"No,  you  know — I  went  down  to  the  harbour 
to  get  some  fresh  air,  and  I  met  him." 

"What  did  he  say?    Reasons,  as  usual?" 

"He  told  me  that  he  had  met  young  Lemarie; 
and  that  I  must  go  again  and  demand  my  pension, 
Monday,  without  fail." 

"If  I  were  you,  uncle,  I  would  leave  that  pen- 
sion alone,  since  they  refuse  it!  Aren't  we  happy 
enough  together?  If  you  cannot  work  any  more, 
I  will  work  for  both." 

"I  know,  I  know,  my  dear — but  he  was  dread- 
fully angry." 

Madiot  would  not  admit  that  he  was  afraid  of 
his  nephew.  He  dreaded  to  cross  the  bad-tem- 
pered, quarrelsome  workman,  whom  he  esteemed 
so  little. 

Henriette  sat  down.    She  knew  all  about  this 


56  REDEMPTION 

question  of  demanding  a  pension,  she  had  heard 
it  over  and  over  again.  But  she  loved  Uncle 
Madiot.  Before  tasting  her  soup  she  smiled  at 
the  old  man,  out  of  charity,  and  also  out  of  grat- 
itude. She  even  assumed  an  air  of  interest. 
"Come,  tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  said,  gayly. 


CHAPTER  V. 


IT  was  a  beautiful  day.  Life  abounded  in  the 
pure  air,  deep  draughts  of  it  were  drawn  in  with 
every  breath,  and  the  body  at  its  contact  thrilled 
with  joy.  Every  winged  creature  had  emerged 
from  nest  and  hole  and  nightly  shelter.  The 
sailors  on  the  banks  called  aloud  to  each  other, 
and  the  echoes  were  louder  than  usual.  Scented 
gusts  of  air  came  in  at  Henrietta's  window,  peals 
of  laughter,  chance  words  of  passers-by,  the  twit- 
ter of  martins  hunting  prey,  all  the  gayety  of  the 
outdoor  world,  calling  "Come  out!  Come  out!" 
The  girl  was  aware  of  it;  she  was  ready,  parasol 
in  hand,  her  veil  tied  over  her  hat  with  the  two 
white  pigeon  wings  that  suited  her  so  well.  Her 
uncle  had  been  gone  since  the  morning  for  one  of 
his  " walks  round  the  harbour"  that  lasted  the 
whole  of  Sunday.  She  waited,  passing  impa- 
tiently from  room  to  room,  sometimes  looking 
out  of  the  open  window  and  thinking:  "What 
beautiful  sunshine!  What  a  pity  to  miss  any  of 
it." 

Where  should  she  go?  Her  plan  had  been  made 
long  ago.  She  would  go  and  see  the  Loutrels,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Loire.  She  had  promised  Ma- 
dame Loutrel,  the  wife  of  the  best  eel-fisher  known 
from  Thouare  to  Bass-Indre.  How  nice  the  walk 
would  be,  how  merry  the  arrival,  and  how  sweet 

57 


58  REDEMPTION 

the  journey  back  in  the  warmth  and  the  languid 
light  of  the  endless  summer  evening. 

Toward  half-past  nine  she  heard  the  voice  of 
the  lodger  on  the  first  floor  saying  to  some  one  on 
the  stairs: 

"  Higher  up,  Mademoiselle,  pull  the  hare's 
foot." 

The  bell  rang  timidly,  announcing  some  poor 
visitor.  Henriette  opened  the  door,  and  the 
same  impression  of  pity  which  she  had  felt  the 
night  before  overcame  every  other  sentiment. 
Marie  Schwarz  still  wore  the  hopeless  expression 
which  had  become  habitual  to  her,  the  same  hard- 
ened look  and  eyes  which  seemed  to  ask  nothing 
but  the  date  of  some  new  misfortune. 

"I  have  come,"  she  said,  simply.  "There  is  no 
place  for  me,  is  there?" 

Henriette  had  drawn  her  into  the  middle  of  her 
uncle's  room,  opposite  the  window.  She  held  her 
hand  and  looked  with  her  clear  eyes  into  the 
sombre  eyes  that  no  light  could  brighten. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is.  I  have  got  you  one.  It  was 
hard  work!" 

Marie's  face  did  not  change;  she  answered  like 
a  hungry  person  who  is  vaguely  promised  food : 

"When  shall  I  have  it?" 

"To-morrow;  you  are  to  come  with  me  to- 
morrow, Monday." 

Then  Henriette  felt  the  heavy  moist  hand  she 
held  tremble  in  her  own,  she  saw  a  sudden  light  in 
the  deep,  troubled  eyes. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mademoiselle,  how  I  thank 
you!" 


REDEMPTION  59 

Marie  Schwarz  made  a  movement  as  if  to  kiss 
Henriette;  then  she  drew  back  quickly,  and, 
overcome  by  the  sudden  strong  emotion,  slowly 
closed  her  eyes  as  if  she  were  about  to  faint. 
Henriette  was  struck  by  the  largeness  of  her 
closed  eyes,  and  the  expression  of  gentleness  her 
face  took  on  as  soon  as  they  were  hidden.  She 
had  an  impression  of  the  poor  girl  as  dead  and 
carved  in  white  stone.  But  she  shook  it  off  at 
once,  like  the  brave  girl  she  was,  and  said  gayly: 

"Well,  Mademoiselle,  I  give  you  good  news  and 
you  begin  to  cry." 

"No;  you  see  I  am  not  crying." 

Marie  tried  to  smile,  but  two  tears  brimmed 
over  and  fell. 

"Do  you  know  what's  the  matter  with  you," 
said  Henriette,  "you  have  too  many  nerves." 

She  drew  a  chair  forward,  made  Marie  sit  down, 
and  sitting  down  beside  her,  said: 

"See  what  a  fine  day  it  is!  When  the  sun 
shines  I  soon  forget  my  troubles." 

"Ah!  your  troubles  are  not  heavy." 

"Do  you  think  not?  I  assure  you  every  one  has 
their  troubles,  and  every  one  thinks  their  own 
heavy.  Now  they  go  and  now  they  come." 

The  clear  morning  light  was  creeping  along  the 
wall  on  the  right. 

Henriette  watched  it  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
thinking  what  it  would  be  best  to  say;  then  she 
continued,  without  moving : 

"Have  you  suffered  very  much,  then,  Made- 
moiselle Marie?" 

"Very  much." 


60  REDEMPTION 

"It  is  so  hard  at  the  beginning,  in  every  trade. 
Is  your  mother  alive?" 

"Yes." 

"You  left  her  in  Paris?  Why  did  you  come 
alone?  Did  she  tell  you  that  you  would  find  work 
here?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"Who  did,  then?" 

"No  one,  it  was  my  own  idea." 

Marie  hesitated,  but  as  Madame  Clemence's 
beautiful  workwoman  still  kept  her  eyes  upon  the 
wall  with  the  air  of  a  sympathetic  elder  sister 
who  knows  all  about  it,  she  ventured  to  speak. 
Her  voice,  which  had  been  quavering  till  then, 
grew  firm,  it  was  a  voice  full  of  passion,  ringing 
like  a  trumpet  call,  filling  the  room  with  music. 

"I  understand  that  you  would  like  to  know  all 
about  me  and  that  is  quite  natural:  when  you 
find  a  girl  a  place  you  ought  to  know  where  she 
comes  from.  I  will  tell  you.  My  mother  is  a 
concierge,  not  at  all  aristocratic,  out  at  Clignan- 
court.  She  never  looked  after  me  because  she 
never  had  time.  She  does  housework  until  five 
o'clock.  We  used  to  meet  at  bedtime.  Oh!  don't 
think  she  is  bad,  she  is  not.  She  used  to  let  me 
keep  nearly  all  the  money  I  earned.  That's  not 
bad,  for  a  mother,  is  it?  I  had  about  enough  for 
food  and  clothes.  See  this  dress  and  jacket  I 
have  on.  I  bought  them  out  of  my  savings  the 
spring  before  last.  Only  she  was  cross  with  me 
because  I  am  not  clever  at  work,  and  she  is  so 
quick  and  handy." 

"What  did  you  do?" 


REDEMPTION  61 

''Miserable  work,  Mademoiselle,  the  sort  of 
jobs  that  girls  do  who  have  no  trade.  Just  fancy! 
I  have  made  workmen's  coats  that  took  half  a  day 
to  make,  at  eight  sous  apiece,  and  men's  shirts  at 
five  sous  each,  and  supplied  the  cotton,  and  I  have 
made  beaded  trimmings  at  three  sous  for  two 
yards!  I  tired  my  eyes  out  at  it,  always  bending 
over  it.  Then,  through  influence  of  course,  I 
managed  to  get  a  berth  as  showroom  model  at 
Noblet's.  I  was  getting  on  all  right.  Then  Mama 
got  ill  at  the  beginning  of  winter,  we  ran  up  heavy 
debts."  Here  her  voice  sank  again  and  grew  hard. 
"When  she  got  better  we  could  not  pay  our  debts. 
She  said  I  was  old  enough  to  manage  for  myself, 
she  could  not  lodge  me  any  longer.  One  must 
live,  mustn't  one?  So — there,  don't  let's  talk 
about  it.  I  could  not  stay  at  home  any  longer, 
that's  all.  So  I  went  away." 

Henriette  did  not  flinch.  She  had  heard  such 
stories  before.  She  had  seen  such  things  and  wept 
over  them  many  times.  It  was  the  people  of  the 
street  who  came  to  her  in  their  complete  destitu- 
tion. Her  eyes,  which  were  fixed  upon  the  win- 
dow, shrank  for  a  moment  as  from  a  piteous 
object.  Then  they  grew  soft  and  wide,  and  fixed 
themselves  upon  the  poor  child,  who  felt  herself 
loved  already. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  do  to-day,  Mademoiselle 
Marie?" 

"No,  Mademoiselle." 

"Then  you  must  come  with  me.  I  am  going  to 
the  Loutrels,  they  are  very  old  friends  of  mine, 
fishermen  of  the  Loire.  I  will  tell  them  you  are 


62  REDEMPTION 

one  of  Madame  eminence's  workgirls;  that  is  a 
passport.  They  are  such  dear  people!  Will  you 
come?" 

Marie  mentally  compared  her  shabby  black 
jacket  and  last  year's  hat,  which  looked  like 
an  old  bird's  nest,  with  Henriette's  pretty  hat, 
with  the  two  white  wings,  and  fresh  light  gray 
dress. 

"How  can  I  come,  dressed  like  this?" 

A  peal  of  laughter  was  the  only  answer.  The 
sunshine  crept  further  along  the  tiled  floor. 

"Ah!  you  are  vain!  Is  that  what  prevents  you? 
Wait  a  moment." 

Henriette  ran  into  the  next  room,  and  returned 
with  a  lace  tie,  a  black  feather,  and  a  little  gray 
cloth  cape  with  brown  trimmings. 

"Now  you  will  see  how  smart  I  can  make 
you!" 

Then,  with  pretty  movements  of  her  deft  fin- 
gers, she  took  off  the  jacket,  threw  the  little  cape 
over  her  friend's  shoulders,  tied  the  lace  scarf  in  a 
butterfly  bow,  pinched  up  with  three  easy  touches 
the  old  hat  that  seemed  to  remember  its  long-lost 
shape,  stuck  the  black  feather  like  an  aigrette  in 
the  middle  of  the  limp  bow,  and  then  drew  back 
to  admire  her  handiwork. 

"Quite  charming,"  she  cried. 

Marie's  face  brightened,  the  natural  young  girl 
awoke  in  her;  she  gently  stroked  the  cloth  that 
hung  in  ample  pleats  about  her  shoulders;  her 
eyebrows  lost  their  frown  and  smoothed  them- 
selves into  two  dark  arches  above  her  eyes;  her 
thick  red  lips  took  an  air  of  decision. 


REDEMPTION  63 

"Now,  I  should  like  to  go,"  she  said. 

They  went  down  together.  The  street  door 
closed  behind  them,  and  they  mingled  with  the 
moving  crowd  of  peasants  and  townsfolk  that 
thronged  upon  the  quays. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THEY  kept  step  together,  one  tall  and  fair,  the 
other  dark  and  of  middle  height.  They  held  their 
heads  rather  high,  talking  quietly  without  gestures, 
and  looking  straight  ahead.  They  might  have 
been  taken  for  two  sisters,  used  to  walking  to- 
gether, who  know  their  way  and  pursue  it  lightly 
and  wisely  among  the  loiterers  of  the  town.  The 
tramways  rolled  by  full  of  humble  folks  bound  for 
a  day  in  the  country,  some  with  fishing  poles  that 
showed  above  the  roof  of  the  conveyance.  But 
the  washing-boats  were  all  empty  and  rocked  in 
silence,  on  the  rigging  and  yards  of  the  large  boats 
anchored  by  the  quay  the  shirts  and  trousers  of 
the  crew  hung  drying  in  the  wind.  It  was  Sun- 
day. Henriette  and  Marie  followed  beside  the 
railway  fence  along  the  Nantes  quays,  between 
the  river  and  the  rows  of  sailors'  taverns  and  shops 
of  sailmakers  and  agents  ranged  in  sight  of  the 
Loire. 

"How  yellow  the  water  is,  Mademoiselle  Hen- 
riette, and  how  fast  it  flows." 

"The  river  must  be  rising — I  hope  it  will  not 
spoil  the  day." 

"Are  they  mowing  now?" 

"Oh,  yes,  because  of  the  rising  water  which 
threatens  the  low  fields.  I  think  they  will  even 
go  on  mowing  to-day." 

61 


REDEMPTION  65 

They  passed  the  Bourse  station.  Henriette  had 
already  greeted  several  friends,  escaped  for  the 
day  from  their  workrooms,  like  herself.  One  of 
them  walked  arm-in-arm  with  a  young  man.  They 
laughed  because  they  loved  each  other,  and  their 
love  was  quite  new.  They  crossed  the  bridge, 
and  Marie  followed  them  for  a  long  time  with  her 
sombre,  ardent  eye. 

As  they  reached  the  end  of  the  Bouffay  quay, 
a  gust  of  wind  almost  blew  away  their  hats. 

"How  lovely  to  feel  the  wind,"  said  Henriette, 
"I  have  to  do  without  it  all  the  week,  in  the 
workroom  at  least,  for  at  home  we  are  so  high  up 
that  no  feather  could  keep  in  curl." 

"I  think  it  is  a  nuisance,  it  makes  one  untidy," 
said  Marie,  pinning  up  her  heavy  locks,  which 
were  always  coming  down. 

By  this  time  the  breath  of  the  Loire,  with  its 
fragrance  of  poplar,  had  begun  to  blow  around  the 
two  girls.  It  passed  in  fresh  gusts,  seeking  the 
sails  and  mills,  and  wandering  over  the  country 
like  bees  in  search  of  clover.  Between  each  gust 
the  atmosphere  seemed  dead;  it  promised  to  be 
a  very  hot  day.  Henriette  and  Marie  followed 
the  Saint-Felix  canal,  and  so  gained  the  banks  of 
the  real  Loire,  no  longer  pressed  upon  by  houses, 
or  broken  by  islands,  but  flowing  wide  and  slow 
in  an  unbroken  stream,  between  meadows  lightly 
set  with  trees.  Toward  the  east,  on  the  far  hori- 
zon, these  trees  were  grouped  and  drawn  together, 
by  the  effect  of  distance,  so  that  the  river  seemed 
to  flow  from  a  blue  forest,  and  then  they  showed 
more  widely  scattered,  waving  above  the  grass  in 


66  REDEMPTION 

lines  of  pale  foliage  through  which  the  light  filtered. 
The  stream  flowed  in  the  middle,  gradually  widen- 
ing the  yellow  ripples  of  its  waters.  The  rising 
water  covered  the  sandbanks.  The  ripe  grass  bent 
over  the  banks  and  plunged  into  the  current.  A 
single  pleasure  boat,  hidden  beneath  its  sails, 
glided  along  the  opposite  bank. 

Henriette  had  waited  to  reach  this  point,  mean- 
ing to  say: 

"See  how  pretty  it  is!  The  Loutrels'  cottage 
is  still  a  long  way  off — over  there."  But  when  she 
glanced  at  Marie,  she  saw  her  looking  so  pale,  that 
it  changed  the  current  of  her  thoughts,  and  she 
felt  only  an  invincible  desire  to  eonsole  that 
human  suffering. 

They  were  walking  along  the  towing-path 
through  the  grass,  Marie  lagging  behind  a  little. 

"Take  my  arm,  Mademoiselle  Marie,  you  are 
tired/ 

"Yes,  I  am;  the  air  makes  me  giddy.  I  am 
strong,  I  assure  you,  quite  strong,  only  I  soon  get 
giddy.'; 

"It  is  only  because  you  have  been  miserable, 
you  will  soon  pick  up  in  Nantes.  When  you  have 
a  room  of  your  own,  furnished  to  suit  your  own 
taste — that  is  really  restful." 

"Yes;  it  must  be  nice  to  have  a  room  of  one's 
own,  with  one's  own  furniture — I  should  like  mine 
to  be  blue." 

"Blue  let  it  be!"  said  Henriette.  "I  will  help 
you.  When  you  have  saved  a  little  I  will  take 
you  to  a  woman  who  sells  second-hand  chintzes, 
ever  so  cheap." 


REDEMPTION  67 

"I  would  rather  have  new  stuff,  you  know," 
said  Marie,  smiling  at  the  thought,  "even  if  it 
were  not  so  good  I  should  like  it  better." 

"Why,  you  are  like  me!  Nothing  is  too  new  or 
too  white  to  please  me.  I  think  if  I  were  rich 
I  should  have  the  most  beautiful  linen." 

"I  would  rather  have  jewels.  When  I  pass  the 
shops  and  see  necklaces  and  rings,  they  seem  to 
hold  me  back.  But  I  shall  never  be  rich." 

"How  do  you  know?"    If  you  get  married?" 

A  real  laugh  rang  out  and  floated  away  on  the 
wind.  Marie's  face  was  turned  toward  the  dis- 
tance beyond  the  Loire.  The  sun  tinged  her  pale 
cheeks  with  gold;  her  teeth  shone  white,  her  eyes 
flashed  with  a  tawny-brown  light.  She  was 
beautiful  at  that  moment  in  spite  of  her  heavy 
features,  beautiful  as  all  passionate  beings,  with 
the  beauty  of  feeling.  Henriette  recognized  that 
splendid  laugh  of  life,  she  had  sometimes  heard  it 
before,  among  her  companions,  and  she  felt  afraid. 
She  knew  the  danger  of  such  laughter.  It  was 
soon  over,  however;  Marie's  eyes  darkened,  she 
hung  her  head,  and  said : 

"Girls  like  me,  Mademoiselle  Henriette,  are 
married  to  misery,  and  the  marriage  is  not  easily 
dissolved." 

She  had  the  same  tragic  air  as  she  had  worn  the 
day  before,  as  of  one  abandoned  by  all  and  dogged 
by  misfortune. 

The  two  girls  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  time; 
then  Henriette,  who  knew  that  some  wounds 
must  not  be  touched,  even  to  heal  them,  said 
simply: 


68  REDEMPTION 

"Look  at  the  daisies.  What  a  lot  there  are  in 
the  Mauves  field!" 

The  earth  lay  before  her  all  in  flower.  The 
meadow  wore  its  garment  of  ripe  grass,  its  green 
broken  here  and  there  by  patches  of  daisies,  but- 
tercups, or  purple  clover.  Every  step  broke  down 
the  interlacing  grasses.  The  wind  upon  the  har- 
vest field  made  shimmering  lights  like  the  flashing 
of  a  steel  blade.  It  blew  away  the  pollen  of  myri- 
ads of  flowers  like  a  mist  of  foam.  All  the  creat- 
ures that  dwell  in  the  earth  had  come  out  of  their 
holes  with  joyous  cries.  It  was  the  height  of 
summer,  the  drunken  season,  when  life  flows  day 
and  night  beneath  the  stars,  for  man  to  drink. 

"See,  isn't  it  beautiful?  Don't  you  feel  as  if 
we  breathed  in  happiness?" 

Henriette's  free  and  open  nature,  used  to  the 
country  from  her  childhood,  loved  to  walk  thus 
in  the  light  and  fragrance  of  noon,  beside  the 
sunlit  Loire. 

She  could  not  have  expressed  her  feelings. 
She  felt  the  caress  of  the  warm  air  to  the  very 
depths  of  her  being;  she  was  conscious  of  her 
youth  of  soul  and  body;  a  voice  seemed  to  whis- 
per: "You  are  strong,  you  are  pretty.  You  will 
get  on  in  the  world.  Life  is  long,  life  is  radiant." 
She  tried  in  vain  to  put  the  thought  aside,  to  dis- 
tract herself  from  it  by  looking  about,  the  voice 
came  from  within  speaking  in  secret.  Marie,  be- 
ing surprised  and  rather  tired,  heard  no  such 
voice,  but  fatigue  at  least  helped  her  to  forget. 

Every  now  and  then  they  crossed  ditches  that 
were  like  baskets  of  aquatic  plants  in  flower,  where 


REDEMPTION  69 

fumitory,  poppies,  mint,  and  beaded  sorrel  flour- 
ished in  the  dry  ooze.  But  at  the  bottom,  among 
the  roots  and  low  grasses,  a  slender  stream  of 
muddy  water  was  beginning  to  flow.  On  the  sur- 
face of  the  river  the  ripples  were  spreading  wider 
than  usual;  they  opened  out  like  the  jaws  of  well- 
fed  beasts  gasping  with  heat.  The  Loire  was  ris- 
ing. Twelve  strokes  rang  out  from  some  church 
steeple,  and  floated  over  the  fields,  like  a  file  of 
birds  calling  one  to  the  other. 

Another  hundred  yards.  Then  a  child  called, 
two  others  came  out,  and  all  three  rushed  to  meet 
the  travellers. 

"They  are  a  large  family  of  boys,"  said  Henri- 
ette,  "there  are  seven  of  them,  all  jolly.  Good- 
morning,  Gervais!  Good-morning,  Henri!  Good- 
morning,  Baptiste." 

They  were  twelve,  ten,  and  seven  years  old. 
They  rushed  forward,  bareheaded  and  barefooted, 
dressed  in  nothing  but  a  pair  of  men's  trousers  and  a 
shirt,  with  braces  a  hand's-breadth  in  width. 
The  last  flung  himself  against  Henrietta's  skirts. 
They  all  kissed  her,  and  eyed  Marie  like  young 
watch-dogs,  suspicious  of  a  stranger. 

"They  are  expecting  you,  Mademoiselle  Hen- 
riette,"  said  Gervais,  who  was  tawny  as  a  lion 
cub.  "Mother  has  scaled  the  roaches.  Etienne 
had  a  job  to  catch  them." 

"Really?" 

"Of  course,  because  of  the  rising!  If  they  had 
not  been  for  you,  he  would  never  have  taken  so 
much  trouble." 

"How  good  of  Etienne!     We  are  such  old 


70  REDEMPTION 

friends,"  said  Henriette,  blushing  a  little.  She 
took  the  two  youngest  Loutrels  by  the  hand, 
with  a  motherly  smile,  and  went  into  the  cottage. 
It  was  built  of  strong  tarred  planks,  and  stood 
upon  a  mound  in  the  fields,  high  enough  to  pro- 
tect the  inmates  from  ordinary  risings  of  the 
river.  Between  the  front  of  the  cottage  and  the 
adjacent  river  bank,  on  a  sloping  square  of  ground, 
three-parts  bare  of  grass,  nets  hung  on  stakes  to 
dry,  and  wicker  creels  pointed  upward.  People 
passing  in  the  distance  might  suppose  that  this 
wooden  shelter  whose  only  garden  consisted  of 
garlands  of  drag-nets,  was  a  fisherman's  hut,  in- 
habited in  summer  only.  But  this  was  not  so; 
the  Loutrels  had  lived  in  it  all  the  year  round  for 
many  years.  The  door  opened  on  a  large  room, 
which  took  up  nearly  the  whole  of  the  cottage, 
and  served  as  a  kitchen,  a  workshop  and  the  par- 
ents' bedroom.  A  cast-iron  stove  for  cooking,  a 
cherry-wood  bedstead,  a  table  its  legs  mildewed 
with  damp,  a  coffer  and  a  bin,  formed  the  whole  of 
the  furniture;  these  were  set  close  together  and 
ranged  in  exact  order  as  if  on  board  a  ship.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  partition  wall  was  the  sons' 
bedroom.  Above  both  rooms,  instead  of  a  ceil- 
ing, fishing  implements  and  provisions  lay  among 
the  beams  and  rafters,  packets  of  line,  skeins  of 
hemp  and  flax,  boxes  pierced  with  holes  for  keep- 
ing fish,  strings  of  threaded  cork,  sweep-nets, 
wicker  creels,  sacks  of  onions,  oars,  tholes,  rudders, 
rolls  of  sailcloth,  rope  ends,  a  thousand  things, 
useful  and  useless,  old  and  new,  such  as  accumu- 
late in  garrets. 


REDEMPTION  71 

The  fisherman  and  his  wife  were  both  types  of 
the  lean  determined  race,  pale-eyed  and  clear- 
headed, which  the  Loire,  in  the  course  of  time, 
has  made  in  its  own  image.  Children  of  shad  and 
eel  fishers,  hard-working,  but  capricious,  tender 
of  heart  and  short  of  temper,  impenitent  and 
convicted  poachers,  they  understood  fishing,  and 
hunting,  the  wind  and  waters,  sands  and  boats, 
and  beyond  these  things  they  knew  nothing,  but 
how  to  weep  when  they  must  and  laugh  on  Sun- 
days over  a  glass  of  muscadet.  A  fine  race,  per- 
haps Gallic,  but  certainly  French. 

Their  seven  sons  resembled  their  parents.  Two 
of  the  eldest  sailed  the  seas  for  the  State  and  one 
was  in  the  merchant  service. 

Henriette  and  Marie  went  into  the  cottage  pre- 
ceded by  the  little  Loutrels  shouting : 

' '  Here  they  are !    Here  they  are ! ' ' 

The  fisherman  and  his  wife  were  standing  by 
the  stove  at  the  end  of  the  room;  he  held  in  his 
hand  the  battered  straw  hat  which  he  had  just 
removed;  and  both  her  hands  were  busy  with  the 
frying-pan  in  which  the  fish  was  cooking.  They 
had  the  same  bony  faces,  bronzed  complexions, 
long,  clear-cut  features,  and  keen,  deep-set  eyes. 
The  woman  wore  the  peasant  bonnet  of  Nantes, 
with  goffered  wings. 

"We  are  rather  late,"  said  Henriette.  "I  have 
a  friend  from  Paris  with  me,  and  she  cannot  walk 
as  fast  as  I  can." 

"She  is  welcome,  my  dear.  Good-morning, 
Mademoiselle!  Is  every  one  quite  well  in  Paris?" 

Marie,  rather  taken  aback  by  the  Southern  sim- 


72  REDEMPTION 

plicity  of  this  polite  question,  answered:  "Very 
well,  thank  you,  Madame,"  while  Henriette  kissed 
Madame  Loutrel  on  both  cheeks. 

"What  smacking  kisses!"  said  the  old  man. 
' '  Kisses  of  youth !  Ohe,  Etienne ! " 

A  strong  arm  pushed  open  the  door  between  the 
two  rooms,  and  Etienne,  twenty-five  years  old, 
came  in,  smiling.  His  long  legs,  upturned  mous- 
taches, and  his  air  of  energy,  made  him  look  like 
one  of  those  gallant  cavaliers  that  painters  love 
to  depict  heading  a  charge.  He  had  on  his  work- 
ing clothes — a  brown  coat  without  buttons,  and 
trousers  and  waistcoat  of  coarse  linen.  Had  not 
he  and  Henriette  been  friends  from  childhood? 
He  looked  straight  at  her,  and  in  his  eyes,  clear  as 
water,  the  eyes  of  a  watcher  and  hunter,  there 
appeared  a  tenderness  for  the  girl  who  stood  be- 
fore him,  smiling  also,  flushed  with  her  walk,  a 
pretty  picture  in  her  gray  dress  and  hat  with  the 
two  wings. 

"It  seems  you  have  been  working  to  give  me  a 
surprise,  Etienne!  It  is  very  kind,  and  my  friend 
and  I  are  terribly  hungry." 

Not  daring  to  call  her  "Henriette"  now  that 
she  was  one  of  the  most  elegant  workgirls  in 
Nantes,  he  answered  gladly: 

"Oh!  Mademoiselle  Henriette,  I  do  not  get  a 
chance  of  pleasing  you  often  enough!" 

The  laughter  of  a  young  heart  caressed  by  a 
word  of  love  rang  through  the  cottage. 

"Hark  at  that,  Etienne!"  she  said. 

Apparently  to  escape  him,  but  really  from  a 
little  bit  of  vanity,  knowing  that  all  eyes  were 


REDEMPTION  73 

upon  her,  she  bent  forward  in  the  streak  ot  sun- 
light that  entered  by  the  low  door.  The  Loire  lay 
before  her,  a  plain  expanse  of  troubled  water, 
stretching  wide  to  the  willows  on  the  opposite 
bank.  The  river  was  a  friend  also.  "How  kindly 
they  receive  me,"  thought  Henriette;  but  all  she 
said  was : 

"How  high  the  river  is." 

The  whole  family  replied,  for  young  and  old 
were  interested  in  the  extraordinary  rise.  Then 
they  sat  down  to  table.  Marie  was  next  to  Etienne 
and  opposite  Henriette.  Astonished  at  first  by 
the  novelty  of  their  ways,  and  rather  isolated  in 
this  conversation  of  old  friends  and  country  ideas, 
she  soon  began  to  feel  at  home,  and  grew  ani- 
mated. Henriette  was  watching  her.  Above  the 
conversation  and  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks, 
she  heard  Marie's  sonorous  voice,  fit  to  raise  the 
battle-cries  of  misery  in  the  midst  of  a  riot,  say- 
ing: "Thank  you,  Monsieur,"  to  Etienne  as  he 
filled  her  glass.  The  tact  she  had  acquired  in  a 
fashionable  shop,  which  made  her  as  refined  as  a 
princess,  made  her  aware  each  moment  of  some 
vulgarity  in  Marie's  intonation,  words,  or  gestures. 
She  remarked,  at  the  same  time,  the  beauty  of  her 
fine  eyes,  which  grew  softer  and  more  gentle; 
they  grew  almost  too  beautiful.  She  thought 
them  so  when  they  rested  on  Etienne.  Her  pre- 
cocious experience  taught  her  that  they  were  a 
danger  to  Marie,  like  the  laugh  she  had  noticed  in 
the  Mauves  field,  the  laugh  of  abandonment  that 
scattered  too  much  soul  by  the  wayside.  Marie 
had  won  her  heart,  and  she  was  anxious  for  her. 


74  REDEMPTION 

Henriette  was  one  of  those  whose  friendship  im- 
mediately becomes  solicitude. 

Heat  seemed  to  pour  through  the  wooden  roof. 
Every  one  felt  the  sting  of  the  invisible  sun  on 
face,  neck,  and  arms.  The  shade  was  full  of  flick- 
ering rays.  Sometimes  one  of  the  boys  would 
look  at  the  Loire  and  say: 

"The  mowers  in  the  big  field  will  not  be  in 
time,  it  is  rising  too  quickly." 

Sometimes  a  leaf,  wisp  of  straw,  or  a  feather 
carried  down  by  the  stream  and  blown  about  by 
the  wind,  fluttered  in,  and  the  father  said  laugh- 
ingly: 

"It  is  funny  that  there  should  be  any  breeze 
left,  it  blew  so  often  when  I  was  young!  Come, 
Etienne,  pour  out  a  glass  of  muscadet  to  the 
health  of  the  pretty  girls  of  Nantes1" 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE  afternoon  was  growing  late.  When  dinner, 
over  which  they  had  lingered  long,  was  finished, 
M.  Loutrel  went  down  the  river  to  take  in  some 
creels,  which  he  feared  the  rising  waters  would 
carry  away.  Henriette,  Marie,  Etienne  andGer- 
vais,  who  began  to  seek  the  society  of  his  elders, 
had  gone  in  the  opposite  direction  up  the  bank, 
and  had  been  seated  for  more  than  an  hour  a  few 
hundred  yards  from  the  cottage,  under  a  group  of 
three  poplar  trees,  whose  roots  were  in  the  water. 
A  shadow,  shot  with  sunlight,  quivered  beneath 
the  trees. 

Etienne  and  Gervais  were  stretched  at  full 
length  in  the  high  grass;  Henriette  and  Marie  sat 
with  their  feet  gathered  up  under  their  skirts. 
They  were  all  watching  the  field  which  the  mow- 
ers were  hastily  despoiling,  exchanging  a  few  words 
at  long  intervals. 

The  peasants,  in  a  slanting  line,  mowed  with  an 
even  movement,  each  one  cutting  a  piece  like  the 
steps  in  a  staircase,  from  the  mass  of  ripe  grass 
that  diminished  before  them.  They  swung  their  ten 
scythes  all  together,  their  bodies  bent  all  together, 
with  one  circular  movement  they  drew  the  blades 
from  beneath  the  gray  piles  they  left  behind,  and 
the  gleam  of  steel  flashed  simultaneously  at  ten 
points  along  the  line.  They  had  not  stopped  for 

75 


76  REDEMPTION 

a  week.  Their  knees  never  left  the  crests  of  flow- 
ers and  seeds.  Women  raked  up  the  harvest  al- 
most as  soon  as  it  fell,  and  piled  it  on  the  carts.  But 
however  strenuous  their  labour,  it  grew  more  and 
more  probable  that  they  would  not  have  time  to 
finish  getting  in  the  hay.  For  they  had  only 
mowed  half  the  immense  field  which  stretched  far 
out  to  the  hills,  seamed  with  hedges,  and  they 
were  approaching  the  lower  ground,  which  would 
soon  be  invaded  by  the  water.  In  the  ditches 
among  the  water-weeds  and  sedges  the  cruel  Loire 
advanced  and  lay  in  wait. 

"There  is  trouble  in  all  trades,"  said  Etienne, 
sententiously.  "The  women,  especially,  are  tired 
out." 

"How  can  you  tell?"  asked  Marie. 

"They  are  not  talking,  and  they  keep  looking 
our  way.  They  would  like  us  to  come  and  help." 

"Indeed!  Do  they  come  and  help  you  get  in 
your  nets?" 

They  all  laughed — Henriette  quietly,  and  the 
rest  loudly.  Their  voices  carried  to  the  workers, 
and  two  or  three  of  the  men  paused  for  a  moment. 

"I  will  go  presently,  if  it  is  necessary,"  said 
Etienne,  growing  serious.  "It  is  quite  true  that 
we,  too,  have  had  hard  days.  The  fish  go  away. 
The  river  grows  dead.  We  can  get  eels  well 
enough,  but  as  to  carp,  tench,  and  perch,  oh !  you 
have  to  be  cunning  to  get  a  living  out  of  them. 
So  do  you  know  what  I  do,  Mademoiselle  Henri- 
ette? When  I  have  taken  in  the  lines  and  eel- 
baskets,  every  morning,  I  fill  my  boat  with  vege- 
tables and  take  them  to  Nantes,  with  my  fish." 


REDEMPTION  77 

From  under  her  parasol,  that  made  her  com- 
plexion still  fairer,  the  milliner  answered,  with  her 
eyes  half  shut  from  the  heat: 

"Where  do  you  take  them?" 

"I  fill  my  boat  at  Saint-Sebastien,  at  Gibraye, 
you  know,  and  come  down  to  the  Trentemoult 
harbour,  right  opposite  your  house,  but  you  are 
never  at  home." 

Henriette's  eyes  smiled  beneath  their  lashes. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Why,  I  look,  of  course." 

"Then  you  don't  look  carefully,  my  dear 
Etienne.  Before  I  go  out  I  open  my  window,  and 
dream  a  little,  while  I  get  some  fresh  air.  I  never 
fail,  when  it  is  fine." 

The  mowers  in  the  distance  were  growing 
anxious.  Those  who  raised  their  scythes  to 
sharpen  them  on  the  stone  glanced  a  moment  at 
the  dip  in  the  field,  the  bottom  of  the  huge  shell 
in  which  they  were  working  so  desperately;  then 
they  bent  and  mowed  more  vigorously  than  ever, 
as  though  the  minutes  were  counted.  It  was  no 
longer  the  daily  task,  but  tragic  rage  and  hatred 
of  the  elements  stronger  than  man.  Riches  were 
about  to  perish.  The  faces,  brown  with  dust, 
dimly  visible  in  the  distance,  the  hurried  move- 
ments, the  farmer's  curt  orders,  and  the  oaths  of 
the  carters  carrying  away  the  green  grass,  con- 
trasted with  the  serenity  of  the  declining  day. 

"But  you  are  not  idle  either,  Mademoiselle 
Henriette,"  said  Etienne.  "Do  you  sew  from 
morning  to  night?" 

"No,  I  trim  hats.   The  shapes  are  ready  for  me. 


78  REDEMPTION 

I  arrange  the  ribbons,  laces,  and  feathers.  I  have 
to  get  an  idea  and  carry  it  out.  It  is  not  easy!" 

"I  should  think  not!"  said  the  fisherman,  cast- 
ing an  admiring  glance  upon  her,  as  if  she  had 
been  a  goddess  who  had  come  down  upon  the 
Mauves  fields.  ' '  And  no  one  says  to  you, '  Do  this, ' 
or  'Do  that'?" 

"No." 

She  beamed,  flattered  by  Etienne's  simple  com- 
pliment, and  the  humble  tenderness  she  guessed 
at. 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear  Etienne.  In  our  place  if  one 
copies,  one  is  done  for.  Something  new  is  always 
wanted;  one  must  have  invention,  and  a  little 
style  that  every  one's  fingers  cannot  manage." 

Etienne,  like  soldiers,  and  like  the  people  of  the 
Loire  to  whom  he  belonged  who  do  not  like  to  be 
at  a  loss,  had  a  set  of  vague  phrases  to  express  his 
feelings  upon  matters  beyond  his  comprehension. 
They  simply  meant  that  he  did  not  quite  under- 
stand, but  was  too  polite  not  to  keep  up  the  con- 
versation, so,  taking  a  piece  of  grass  he  was  chew- 
ing out  of  his  mouth,  he  answered : 

"What  a  business!  It  must  take  a  lot  of 
thought!" 

•"I  can't  think  how  you  manage,"  said  Marie. 
"In  time  I  might  learn  to  copy,  but  I  should 
never  be  able  to  invent." 

Henriette,  who  always  brightened  up  when  the 
conversation  turned  upon  such  subjects,  twirled 
her  parasol,  and  said: 

"Bah!  you  can  try.  An  idea  comes,  you  don't 
know  how.  It  hooks  itself  on  to  us  like  a  fish  on 


REDEMPTION  79 

Etienne's  lines.  There  are  good  days  when  you 
get  ten  at  a  time,  and  days  when  you  can  think  of 
nothing.  Good  humour  goes  a  long  way.  When 
I  am  not  worried  everything  comes  easily  to  me. 
A  wedding,  a  party  coming  home  from  the  races, 
a  fashion  paper,  an  exhibition  of  pictures  sets 
our  minds  working.  But  it  is  youth,  you  know, 
that  does  the  rest.  Nothing  can  replace  it. 
Freshness  of  imagination  is  necessary.  Then 
there  is  another  thing,  a  certain  style;  you  under- 
stand, Mademoiselle  Marie?  For  example,  at 
Madame  Louise's  they  rather  go  in  for  outline. 
At  Madame  Clemence's  we  are  colourists." 

Etienne  was  not  following  the  conversation. 
His  eyes  had  the  drowsy  look  which  tension  of 
thought  produces  in  a  peasant;  he  had  turned 
them  away  from  Henriette,  and  was  gazing  into 
the  forest  of  grass.  He  was  watching  with  in- 
ward anger  the  last  act  of  the  duel  between  the 
mowers  and  the  river,  for  he  knew  its  dangerous 
treachery.  Suddenly  he  raised  his  head  and 
shoulders,  his  hands  still  pressed  against  the 
ground,  and  said : 

"Look  there!    It  has  come!" 

Through  the  ditches  and  imperceptible  slopes 
the  Loire  had  gained  the  middle  of  the  field.  He 
stretched  out  his  arm : 

" There  in  front.  The  river  is  laughing  in  the 
grass.  It  will  be  a  marsh  in  half  an  hour.  It  is 
rising  quicker  than  it  did  three  years  ago.  Isn't 
it,  Gervais?" 

The  red-haired  boy,  who  was  already  rolling  up 
his  trousers,  answered  gravely: 


80  REDEMPTION 

"I  think  the  water  is  rising  faster." 

At  this  moment  a  woman's  cry  rose  at  the 
edge  of  the  ripe  grass,  floated  on  the  air,  and  died 
away  in  the  green  and  silent  immensity. 

The  flood!  They  were  calling  for  help  to  save 
the  last  cart-loads.  The  two  Loutrels  made  off 
with  the  long  swinging  stride  of  watermen.  They 
turned  aside,  and  mingled  with  the  men  and 
women  assembled  in  the  narrow  space  where  the 
mowed  grass  still  lay  upon  the  ground.  The 
scythes  were  still.  Every  rake  and  every  pitch- 
fork was  in  motion. 

From  the  place  where  they  sat,  Marie  and  Hen- 
riette  saw  the  end  of  this  drama  of  the  harvest. 

The  victorious  Loire  crushed  the  high  grass, 
laying  it  quicker  and  better  than  the  steel  blades, 
twisting  the  tufts  of  seed,  which  left  their  live 
dust  upon  the  waters.  None  could  say  whence 
came  the  invading  sheet  of  water.  It  made  itself 
a  bed  like  a  beast,  turning  round  and  round.  At 
first  it  was  a  yellow  pool,  round  which  the  banks 
of  grass  crumbled  away.  Left  and  right  other 
pools  of  gold  soon  glittered  in  the  hollows  of  the 
field,  and  the  grass  rolled  into  them  to  die,  and 
from  one  to  the  other,  like  a  line  of  flame,  chan- 
nels of  communication  widened  out.  Soon  the 
mound  on  which  the  Loutrels'  cottage  stood  was 
cut  off  from  the  dry  land,  and  a  current  running 
parallel  with  the  river  covered  the  whole  of  the 
green  expanse  to  the  horizon,  toward  Nantes, 
and  pressed  with  all  the  weight  of  its  waters  upon 
the  ruined  harvest. 

Beyond  it,  the  workers  gathered  together  en- 


REDEMPTION  81 

deavouring  to  wrest  from  the  Loire  the  last  cart- 
load stuck  in  the  shallows.  They  stamped  in  the 
mud,  hanging  to  the  shafts,  axles  and  spokes  of 
the  wheels.  Now  and  then  a  clamour  arose,  they 
bent  all  together  in  a  united  effort,  the  bells  of  the 
four  horses  tinkled,  the  mass  of  grass  overflowing 
the  wooden  sides  dragged  on  the  ground,  quivered 
and  let  detached  wisps  fall  from  its  enormous 
back;  but  the  cart  never  moved.  And  all  around 
was  the  tranquillity  of  the  calm  air,  the  infinite 
peace  and  sweetness  of  the  evening  before  the 
stars  appear.  It  enveloped  the  workers  with  use- 
less consolation,  a  vain  tenderness  of  the  heav- 
ens. But  how  many  others  breathed  it  and  re- 
joiced: mothers  tired  by  the  children's  noise,  old 
men  drinking  after  vespers  under  the  inn  arbours, 
workmen  in  their  Sunday  best  taking  the  air  in 
public  gardens,  lovers  whose  conversation  lan- 
guished on  the  journey  home. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Etienne  and  Gervais  re- 
turned over  the  flooded  meadow,  where  the  cart, 
stuck  fast  in  the  mud,  made  an  island,  while  the 
workers,  diminished  by  the  distance,  straggled 
home  through  the  trees  with  the  unharnessed 
horses.  Etienne  found  the  two  girls  ready  to 
start. 

"Do  you  know,  you  can't  get  back  to  Nantes 
now  the  fields  are  cut  off  by  the  flood/'  he  said, 
jokingly. 

"Do  you  think  I  would  stay  here?"  said 
Marie.  "Oh,  dear,  no!  I  begin  work  to-morrow. 
I  would  rather  tuck  up  my  skirts  and  cross  the 
fields  as  you  have  just  done!" 


82  REDEMPTION 

But  Etienne  went  on,  taking  no  notice  of 
Marie : 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  I  will  take  you  both  back  in 
my  boat — that  is,  if  Mademoiselle  Henriette  likes." 

He  questioned  Henriette  with  respect  in  his 
face  and  voice  as  she  stood  poking  at  a  bunch  of 
white  clover  with  the  point  of  her  parasol.  She 
hesitated  a  moment,  inwardly  flattered  by  his 
deference;  then  she  looked  up  and  said: 

"Yes,  please,  Etienne." 

Then  the  broad-shouldered  young  giant,  beam- 
ing with  pleasure,  went  off  toward  the  cleft  in 
the  bank,  where  the  Loutrels  tied  their  flat  boats. 
Gervais  ran  before,  shouting  with  joy,  like  a  sea- 
gull taking  to  the  water. 

When  they  brought  the  best  and  newest  of  the 
three  boats  down  toward  the  cottage,  where 
Henriette  and  Marie  were  waiting,  they  had 
spread  a  piece  of  clean  sail  over  the  seat  in  the 
prow,  so  that  "the  young  ladies"  might  sit  down 
without  soiling  their  dresses.  A  few  leaves  and 
flowers  of  the  wisp  of  green  broom  with  which 
Gervais  had  wiped  the  planks  lay  scattered  about 
the  boat.  Henriette  kissed  Madame  Loutrel. 

Etienne,  attending  seriously  to  the  manage- 
ment of  his  oars,  gained  the  current  with  a  few 
strokes,  and  the  boat  glided  away  over  the 
flooded  meadows,  toward  the  town  lying  in  the 
sunset.  The  two  girls  sat  together  in  the  prow, 
side  by  side.  Sometimes  they  looked  toward 
Nantes,  where  the  sun  was  setting,  while  the 
houses,  the  arches  of  the  bridges,  the  church 
spires,  and  factory  chimneys,  clustered  together 


REDEMPTION  83 

in  the  twilight,  showed  up  in  blue  outlines  against 
the  background  of  light.  Sometimes  they  looked 
back  toward  the  receding  Mauves  field,  and  their 
eyes  rested  upon  Etienne,  busy  with  his  oars,  but 
not  so  absorbed  in  them  but  that  his  eyes  could 
sometimes  meet  those  of  Henriette,  with  a  smile, 
as  if  by  chance.  The  sky  of  molten  gold  was  re- 
flected in  the  stream.  But  shadows  were  gather- 
ing on  the  grass,  and  the  willows  gleamed  no 
more.  The  breeze  was  dying  down.  A  languor 
hung  about  the  close  of  day,  and  promised  an 
exquisite  night.  Snatches  of  song  and  peals  of 
laughter  sounded  over  the  waters,  growing  louder 
and  louder.  As  the  travellers  approached  the 
town  their  joy  grew  troubled  as  divine  joy  will 
when  it  fears  its  death  in  our  hearts.  Etienne 
mused:  "Will  she  ever  love  me?  Oh!  what  can 
a  poor  boatman  do  to  win  the  love  of  this  work- 
girl  who  is  as  unapproachable  as  a  lady,  so  that  I 
am  too  shy  to  speak  before  her?"  Henriette 
regretted  that  her  day  of  liberty  was  drawing  to  a 
close,  and  though  she  would  not  give  way  to  the 
thought  too  much,  she  yielded  to  the  impulse  to 
look  back  at  the  low  willows  of  the  Loire,  in  the 
distance,  which  were  just  on  a  level  with  Etienne's 
eyes.  Marie  felt  ill  at  ease,  like  a  stranger  be- 
tween two  people  who  love  or  are  about  to  love 
each  other.  She  withdrew  into  herself  and  her 
own  misery.  Her  thick,  white  hand  hung  over 
the  side  of  the  boat,  dabbling  in  the  water,  and, 
thinking  of  the  cool  depths  beneath  her,  she  was 
assailed  by  the  thought  of  plunging  in,  and  being 
annihilated,  and  lying  down  to  rest.  Gervais, 


84  REDEMPTION 

curled  up  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  was  trying  to 
sleep.  They  drifted  smoothly  along. 

The  outline  of  the  town  was  now  deep  purple 
against  the  pale  sky.  When  they  had  passed  the 
Vendee  bridge  the  town  looked  enormous  between 
the  golden  river  and  the  golden  sky,  casting  from 
one  to  the  other  the  reflection  of  its  huge  cascade 
of  masonry  clustered  in  the  shadow.  Sounds  arose 
from  this  landscape  of  stone,  which  grew  vaster 
and  higher  as  the  boat  advanced,  indistinct 
voices,  the  movement  of  human  beings,  and  the 
noise  of  traffic.  Nearer  to  them,  along  the  banks, 
couples  of  poor  folk  returning  with  a  flower  in 
their  dress  or  button-hole,  turned  their  merry  faces 
to  the  river,  and  called  out:  "Take  us  in,  I  am 
tired!" 

Before  the  taverns — the  "Beau  Soleil,"  the 
"Mon  Plaisir,"  and  the  "Robinson" — under  the 
flowery  arbours  of  glycina,  the  drinkers  raised 
their  glasses  and  held  them  out  toward  the  boat, 
where  sat  the  fisherman  and  the  two  girls  of  the 
people. 

Thus  strangers  saluted  you,  poor  passers-by! 
And  they  did  well!  They  raised  their  glasses; 
their  shouts,  or  their  silent  envy,  celebrated  the 
country  from  whence  you  were  returning,  the 
glory  of  the  stream  down  which  you  floated,  the 
beauty  of  the  evening,  the  dream  they  guessed 
between  you;  for  they  were  workers  like  your- 
selves, who  have  but  one  good  day,  and  they  knew 
how  sweet  it  is,  when  youth  returns  from  the 
open  country,  saddened  to  see  the  dying  day 
close  on  its  mirth.  What  mysterious  sign  is  it 


REDEMPTION  85 

that  marks  those  that  love,  so  that  the  heart  is 
thus  moved  and  recognizes  them  from  afar, 
though  they  be  unknown,  obscure,  pass  rapidly 
and  are  gone? 

Etienne,  slanting  his  oar,  which  lightly  ruffled 
the  surface  of  the  stream,  turned  the  boat  to  the 
right,  by  the  branch  of  the  Loire  that  traverses 
the  centre  of  the  town  and  passes  at  the  foot  of 
Bouffay  Castle.  Houses,  the  station,  and  fac- 
tories, lined  the  banks  of  the  canal.  The  dust  of 
the  day  rose  in  a  warm  cloud,  turning  to  rose 
colour  where  it  met  the  sun,  above  the  roofs  and 
hills.  The  boatman  stood  up  paddling,  and 
dreaming  no  more,  save  deep  down  in  his  heart. 
He  sought  a  landing-place,  for  the  quays  were 
dark  and  the  currents  strong.  He  had  to  fling 
himself  into  the  prow,  and  catch  hold  of  an  iron 
ring  to  which  he  quickly  fastened  his  rope.  The 
movement  made  the  boat  dip,  and  Henriette  gave 
a  little  cry;  but  before  she  could  lose  her  balance, 
Etienne's  arm  was  round  her  and  she  was  lifted  on 
to  the  stone  step,  against  which  the  water  lapped 
like  boiling  oil.  She  drew  back  a  little,  and  gave 
her  hand  to  Marie,  who  was  stepping  ashore. 
Etienne  devoured  her  with  his  eyes,  saying  in 
tones  of  entreaty: 

"I  should  like  to  take  you  down  to  the  sea, 
Mademoiselle  Henriette,  the  journey  here  is  too 
short." 

For  answer,  she  held  out  her  hand,  and  he 
pressed  it  hard. 

"Thank  you,  Etienne,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,  Monsieur,"  said  Marie. 


86  REDEMPTION 

Before  they  had  taken  a  dozen  steps  along  the 
quay,  they  saw  the  boat  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream  again,  and  Etienne  and  Gervais  side  by 
side,  rowing  hard  to  reach  Mauves  again  before 
it  was  quite  dark. 

Etienne 's  joy  was  gone,  for  the  crowd,  the 
dust,  night  and  forgetfulness  already  lay  between 
them.  The  charm  was  broken,  the  weight  of  the 
dying  day  lay  upon  the  fisherman's  heart  as  he 
rowed  up  the  stream.  But  the  girls  walked 
lightly  on,  mixing  with  the  Sunday  crowd.  Marie 
recovered  her  gayety  in  that  crowd,  of  which  she 
felt  herself  a  unit.  Henriette  was  calmer,  think- 
ing of  the  pleasant  day  they  had  spent. 

''Your  friends  the  Loutrels  are  quite  peasants," 
said  Marie. 

"Yes,  but  they  are  such  dear  people,  that  is  all 
I  care  about." 

The  deep,  dark  eyes  looked  questioningly  at 
Henriette,  who  walked  along  with  her  face  raised 
to  the  first  star  which  had  just  risen  above  the 
hills.  Marie  feared  she  had  offended  her.  She 
caught  hold  of  her  arm  and  squeezed  it : 

"You  are  not  angry,  are  you?" 

"Angry!"  said  Henriette,  absently,  "why?" 

"Because  we  are  not  a  bit  alike.  But  I  love 
you  all  the  same.  I  should  like  to  be  your  friend," 
she  continued,  almost  violently.  "I  am  not 
worth  much;  I  shall  be  sure  to  grieve  you,  but  I 
love  you.  Will  you  be  my  friend?" 

Henriette,  roused  from  her  dreams,  answered 
in  a  low  voice: 

"Yes,  Marie,  I  will." 


REDEMPTION  87 

"I  will  tell  you  everything;  you  may  scold  me 
when  I  do  wrong;  and  I  will  try  to  be  better." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  though  very  different  by 
nature,  both  were  glad  to  hear,  and  to  exchange 
with  lips  and  glances,  the  words  which  secretly 
delighted  both :  ' '  Love  me ! " 

At  this  moment  a  young  man  came  out  of  one 
of  the  blind  alleys  that  run  down  to  the  quays; 
he  recognized  Henriette  and  exclaimed: 

"Is  it  you?  The  last  person  I  expected  to 
meet!" 

It  was  Antoine  Madiot;  in  spite  of  his  dark- 
brown  suit  and  round  hat  of  the  same  colour,  his 
hands  grimed  with  steel  dust,  his  red  tie  and  the 
watchful  anxiety  of  his  expression  showed  him  to 
be  no  more  than  a  working  man.  His  ferret 
head,  wasted  cheeks  and  narrow  chest  betrayed 
his  dissipated  life.  He  might  have  gone  on  his 
way  as  usual,  after  throwing  these  few  idle  words 
at  his  sister,  if  he  had  not  noticed  the  other  girl  in 
the  gray  cape,  with  the  large  eyes  still  soft  with 
the  loving  words  just  spoken. 

"You  are  taking  a  walk  with  some  one?  It  is 
unusual  to  meet  you  without  Uncle  Madiot  at 
this  hour!" 

"This  is  one  of  my  work-room  comrades,"  said 
Henriette;  "we  are  coming  back  from  Mauves." 

"I  will  walk  a  little  way  with  two  such  pretty 
girls,  if  the  other  lady  is  agreeable?"  he  added, 
while  Marie  shrugged  her  shoulders,  much  flat- 
tered, but  too  shy  to  speak. 

He  walked  on  the  left  of  Henriette,  and  began 
to  tell  them  drolly,  with  the  gestures  of  one  sure 


88  REDEMPTION 

of  his  own  wit,  about  a  discussion  he  had  had  the 
day  before  with  his  master  over  some  piece  of  work 
which  had  gone  wrong,  and  how  he  had  managed 
to  make  him  lose  his  temper  and  put  himself  in 
the  wrong. 

"You  should  have  seen  the  old  hands  chuck- 
ling inwardly  and  saying  to  themselves:  'Go 
ahead,  youngster,  you're  in  the  right.'  You 
should  have  seen  their  eyes  shine.  And  the  other 
looked  a  fine  fool;  he  had  a  strike  last  year  for 
much  less.  When  it  struck  seven,  they  all  crowded 
round  and  congratulated  me.  If  I  had  chosen  to 
say  the  word,  the  thing  would  have  been  done." 

Marie  was  listening  eagerly,  and  sometimes  he 
leant  forward  to  look  past  Henriette,  who  was 
contemptuously  used  to  his  boasting,  at  the  other 
girl,  who  was  quite  of  his  own  class.  He  knew  in- 
stinctively how  ready  she  was  to  drink  in  hatred, 
though  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  masts  of  the 
ships,  which  lay  still  at  the  side  of  the  canal. 

They  had  entered  the  denser  shadow  cast  by 
the  hills,  long  after  sunset.  They  were  nearing 
the  end  of  the  quays.  The  crowd  was  growing 
less  dense.  The  shopkeepers  advanced  their  chairs 
further  on  the  pavement.  Antoine  went  on  talk- 
ing, addressing  himself  to  Henriette  alone,  and 
trying  through  her  to  excite  old  Madiot  to  demand 
the  pension  due  to  him  from  M.  Lemarie.  In  his 
opinion,  if  Victor  Lemarie'  had  stopped  his  car- 
riage at  the  top  of  their  road  to  ask  news  of  the 
invalid,  and  if  they  had  sent  him  medicines,  it 
was  because  the  master  was  frightened  and  hoped 
to  gain  time. 


REDEMPTION  89 

"Young  Lemarie  saw  quite  well  that  I  was  not 
taken  in  by  his  soft  speeches!  He  sat  there  look- 
ing foolish  before  us  all.  I  hope  Uncle  Madiot  will 
go  to-morrow.  Tell  him  what  I  say.  He  is  not 
much  use,  unfortunately — he  has  nothing  to  say 
for  himself." 

Antoine  bent  forward  in  the  gloom  to  catch  the 
expression  of  his  sister's  face.  He  had  a  meaning 
look,  and  a  tone  of  mocking  hatred  which  he  often 
assumed  toward  Henriette. 

"Ah!  if  you  were  to  ask!"  he  said  in  a  low, 
insinuating  voice. 

"Antoine!" 

"The  thing  would  be  done;  we  should  get  the 
pension  right  enough,  and  at  once." 

"You  must  be  mad!  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it  at  all." 

She  moved  away  from  him,  hurt  by  his  tone 
and  words.  He  burst  out  laughing. 

"Of  course!  I  knew  it;  I  only  said  what  I  did 
to  make  sure!  My  lady  has  nothing  to  do  with 
such  things.  What  does  she  care  about  other 
people?  She  is  ashamed  of  an  uncle  and  brother 
who  are  only  workmen." 

Then  he  added  after  a  short  pause : 

"I  am  sure  I  do  not  bother  you  for  favours." 

"Why  not,  if  I  can  grant  them." 

"Even  when  I  haven't  a  sous,  like  to-day.  I 
won't  complain." 

"Here  is  the  proof,  Antoine,"  she  said,  gently. 
"Here  are  my  last  two  francs;  you  may  have 
them.  I  have  had  to  get  a  great  deal  of  medicine 
for  uncle." 


90  REDEMPTION 

Antoine  took  the  piece  of  silver  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"It's  disgusting  the  way  you  can  earn  money. 
You've  always  got  some,  but  we  poor  men — ' 
With  a  parting  gesture,  half  of  thanks  and  half 
farewell,  he  turned  away  and  went  up  the  Avenue 
de  Launay,  which  they  were  just  passing. 

"  Would  you  believe,  Marie,  that  when  he  was 
a  little  fellow  I  was  his  best  friend?  He  would  not 
go  to  sleep  until  I  had  kissed  him." 

She  walked  a  few  steps  further,  then  stopped 
and  said: 

"You  see  there  are  troubles  in  every  one's 
life." 

These  words  of  sorrow  threw  them  into  each 
other's  arms.  Henriette  pressed  her  sister  in 
misfortune  to  her  heart  and  felt  her  warm  lips 
upon  her  cheek  by  way  of  thanks. 

"Good-by  till  to-morrow,"  they  said  to  each 
other  as  they  separated,  and  the  shades  of  night 
fell  between  them  as  each  one  turned  toward  her 
home. 

Henriette  raised  her  eyes  again  to  the  star  that 
shone  above  Miseri  Hill.  There  are  certain  hours 
that  are  as  balm  to  sorrow,  and  gentle  airs  that 
move  the  heart.  She  felt  them  as  soon  as  she 
was  alone,  and  thrilled  with  the  intimate  consola- 
tion of  created  things.  She  murmured  half  aloud : 

"Why  is  my  heart  so  troubled  to-night?" 

She  was  no  poet.  She  was  only  a  poor  girl,  who 
longed  for  love  and  had  found  none.  It  was  love 
that  spoke  to  her;  love  that  takes  possession  of 
the  heart  before  it  finds  an  object  or  a  name,  that 


REDEMPTION  91 

calls  to  us  unceasingly  in  changing  tones,  saying, 
"I  am  beauty,  I  am  rest,  I  wipe  away  all  tears." 

She  thrilled  as  she  leant  her  arms  upon  the 
window-sill  of  her  room  in  the  twilight,  as  if  her 
heart  opened  itself  to  the  night.  The  leaves  of  the 
rose  laurel  were  scarcely  stirred  by  the  breeze. 

"Happy  are  they  who  are  loved!"  she  thought, 
"and  those  who  have  a  friend."  The  faces  of  her 
companions  in  the  workroom  passed  before  her, 
and  she  smiled  at  the  thought  of  those  who  had 
befriended  her  in  the  days  of  her  apprenticeship. 
She  remembered  the  gestures,  words,  or  looks 
which  had  touched  her  proud  nature.  They  had 
all  worn  the  same  moved  look  as  they  whispered 
in  the  workroom,  "Let  us  be  friends,  shall  we?" 
Ah!  how  sweet  was  the  quick  look  of  thanks,  the 
furtive  hand-squeeze  as  they  left  their  work,  and 
the  promise  to  tell  each  other  everything!  Above 
all  she  remembered  at  the  beginning  of  her  life  in 
the  workroom  a  certain  pale  Mademoiselle  Valen- 
tine, the  forewoman,  whom  she  had  worshipped  for 
her  large  eyes  and  a  kind  word  spoken  on  her  be- 
half: "Don't  tease  the  new  apprentice,  she  will 
get  on;  the  child  has  clever  fingers  and  plenty  of 
sense."  What  goodness  on  one  side  and  what 
love  on  the  other!  The  older  woman  had  never 
guessed  at  the  dumb  worship  of  the  little  appren- 
tice. Henriette  remembered  pricking  her  finger 
till  it  bled  simply  to  win  a  little  notice  and  pity 
from  Mademoiselle  Valentine.  She  remembered 
how  one  morning  she  had  longed  to  die  at  her 
door  and  to  say  with  her  dying  breath,  "It  is  for 
you!  I  have  prayed  to  die,  so  that  you  may  be 


92  REDEMPTION 

happy."  Souls  of  young  girls,  thirsting  for  love! 
It  was  the  best  and  purest  that  deceived  them- 
selves  thus.  Henriette  remembered  them  all. 
Alas!  all  were  scattered — some  married,  some 
dead,  some  drifted  away  and  forgotten.  Then  she 
thought  of  Marie,  who  must  have  got  back  by 
then  to  Rue  Saint-Similieu,  a  city  of  the  poor, 
sleeping  over  yonder,  beyond  an  immense  valley 
of  houses  and  factories,  nearly  all  the  town, 
stretching  away  behind  the  hill. 

"How  soon  I  have  grown  fond  of  her,"  she 
thought;  "there  must  be  days  when  love  comes 
easily." 

The  Loire  gleamed  among  the  islands  and  the 
prows  of  the  great  schooners,  lying  in  shadow. 
Gusts  of  hot  air  rose  from  the  neighbouring 
streets,  laden  with  heavy  odours,  indefinably  de- 
pressing, as  if  the  vitiated  atmosphere,  in  touch- 
ing the  mysterious  principle  of  life,  had  become 
charged  with  the  fatigue  of  human  breasts,  the 
trouble  of  human  hearts,  and  the  moral  distress 
of  the  whole  city;  and  the  intermittent  breeze, 
blowing  in  from  the  open  country,  brought  fresh 
provisions  of  love,  perfume,  and  energy,  driving 
away  the  heavy  vapours  of  the  day. 

"Poor  Marie!  She  will  not  get  off  easily.  She 
is  common,  and  she  comes  of  a  bad  stock.  Temp- 
tations are  plentiful  in  our  trade.  But  I  will  do 
my  best;  I  will  adopt  her.  I  will  answer  for  her 
to  Madame  Clemence." 

Henriette  smiled  like  an  honest  girl,  who  is  not 
ignorant  of  evil;  then  the  smile  faded  and  she 
grew  sad.  Was  a  new  friend  enough  to  fill  her 


REDEMPTION  93 

heart?  She  was  twenty-four,  and  very  lonely. 
Uncle  Eloi  loved  her  dearly,  but  he  saw  every- 
thing with  the  eyes  of  an  old  soldier;  as  a  guide 
and  confidant  he  was  quite  useless.  Antoine 
hated  her;  all  her  prayers  and  efforts  had  not 
sufficed  to  win  him  back  to  their  former  intimacy. 
She  had  no  family  circle,  and  so  her  heart  some- 
times grew  heavy  on  evenings  like  this  when  she 
had  time  to  think  of  herself. 

She  felt  very  depressed.  She  fixed  her  eyes  on 
a  point  of  the  valley,  beyond  the  Loire,  dark  as 
the  future.  She  thought  that  Etienne,  at  least, 
was  fond  of  her.  He  had  found  many  touching 
and  humble  ways  of  showing  the  pleasure  he  had 
felt  in  bringing  her  home.  How  he  followed  her 
with  admiring  eyes. 

"Oh!  he  likes  me,  there  is  no  doubt  of  that," 
she  said  to  herself;  "he  shows  it  plainly  enough. 
He  is  like  many  others  who  think  me  pretty,  but 
he  is  more  at  his  ease  with  me  because  we  are  such 
old  friends.  But  he  cannot  love  me  as  I  want  to 
be  loved;  he  is  nearly  the  same  age  as  myself. 
He  knows  that  a  Loire  fisherman  and  a  milliner 
would  be  an  ill-matched  couple.  And  what  about 
myself — shall  I  ever  love  him?  Do  I  love  him 
now?" 

She  listened  to  her  own  heart  in  the  deep  si- 
lence, and  there  came  no  answer. 

Henriette  smiled  to  herself  in  the  delicious  night 
air.  No !  the  beloved  was  still  nameless,  and  yet 
he  existed.  He  had  grown  up  with  her  in  the 
secret  places  of  her  heart  ever  since  she  was  fifteen. 
He  who  was  to  be  all  tenderness,  he  who  would 


94  REDEMPTION 

hide  her  against  his  shoulder,  who  would  know 
all  her  secrets,  who  would  defend  her  from  insult 
in  the  streets,  who  would  treat  her  with  as  much 
respect  as  though  she  were  a  great  lady,  and 
would  take  upon  himself  half  the  sorrows  of  life. 
How  she  would  love  him !  She  seemed  to  see  him 
in  the  distant  shadows,  on  which  her  eyes  dwelt 
full  of  tenderness. 

With  an  involuntary  movement  she  pressed  her 
arms  against  her  breast,  then  dropped  them, 
blushing  at  herself.  "Yet  it  is  true!  I  would 
love  him  well,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  should  be 
capable  of  anything  for  the  man  I  loved!  There 
is  no  sacrifice  I  would  not  make  for  him.  It  is 
sweet  even  to  think  of  him." 

Her  uncle's  cracked  cuckoo-clock  struck  the 
half-hour.  The  cry  of  a  beaten  child  rose  from 
a  neighbouring  yard;  then  came  a  sound  of  un- 
certain steps  upon  the  staircase  outside.  "There 
are  the  old  Plemeurs  coming  home  tipsy,  as 
usual,"  thought  Henriette. 

The  last  gleam  had  faded  from  the  horizon. 
The  earth  was  wrapped  in  blue  shadows.  A 
strong  wind,  fresh  as  the  breeze  over  the  downs, 
leaving  a  savour  of  salt  on  the  lips  of  the  last 
passers-by,  blew  over  the  valley,  making  the 
shrouded  masts  creak  with  longing. 

"Why  is  my  heart  so  troubled  to-night?" 
thought  Henriette. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


ELOI  MADIOT  had  on  the  silk  hat  and  frock  coat 
which  he  wore  on  Sundays,  and  when  he  was  in- 
vited, under  penalty  of  a  fine,  to  attend  the  funeral 
of  a  fellow-member  of  the  Mutual  Aid  Society. 
He  had  taken  longer  than  usual  to  brush  them, 
not  out  of  vanity,  but  embarrassment  as  to  what 
he  should  say  to  the  awe-inspiring  M.  Lemarie, 
his  master. 

Henriette  had  run  in  joyously  after  the  mid-day 
dinner:  "I  am  so  glad,  uncle,"  she  said;  "Marie 
came  to  work  this  morning,  and  all  the  girls  were 
nice  to  her."  Then  she  had  walked  with  him  as 
far  as  the  hotel  on  the  Boulevard  Delorme  and 
left  him  before  the  door  of  varnished  oak  with  its 
two  rings  of  burnished  copper.  The  old  man, 
after  contemplating  the  front  of  the  hotel  which 
held  so  much  uncertainty  for  him,  vainly  endeav- 
oured to  press  the  electric  bell  with  his  free 
hand.  A  passer-by  laughed  at  the  fumbling  of  his 
clumsy  fingers  on  the  ivory  button,  when  sud- 
denly the  doors  flew  open,  and  a  landau  drawn  by 
two  horses  came  out  with  a  clatter  of  harness  and 
a  rolling  echo  of  wheels,  and  stood  waiting  by  the 
roadside. 

"I  want  to  see  the  master,"  said  Madiot. 

The  footman,  who  was  just  closing  the  door, 
replied : 

95 


96  REDEMPTION 

"Can't  you  see  he  is  just  going  out.  Go  to  the 
office  to-morrow.  He  does  not  see  workmen 
here." 

But  Madiot  pushed  past  him  and  gained  the 
middle  of  the  porch,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase  with  its  stucco  ornament,  its  immacu- 
late stone  steps,  and  strip  of  crimson,  leading  up 
out  of  sight  into  the  silence  above. 

Eloi  stood  bewildered  at  this  luxury,  and  the 
footman  passed  behind  him  grumbling. 

"I  will  tell  the  master  about  this,  you  will  be 
lucky  if  you  aren't  put  out." 

The  workman's  broad  shoulders  prevented  him 
from  taking  stronger  measures.  Eloi  stood  mo- 
tionless at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  flooded  with  red, 
white  and  yellow  light,  deliciously  blended.  It 
made  him  think  of  the  flower  market  and  the 
gladiolas  that  Henriette  bought  sometimes  toward 
the  end  of  spring.  How  well  these  rich  people 
knew  how  to  make  their  houses  bright;  they  al- 
ways had  plenty  of  light !  A  muffled  footstep  was 
heard  on  the  staircase,  where  the  least  sound 
echoed  loudly.  It  was  followed  by  a  second, 
slower  footstep  and  a  rustling  of  silk.  M.  Lemarie 
appeared  dressed  in  a  frock  coat  with  a  gray 
dust-coat  on  his  arm.  He  was  putting  on  his 
gloves;  his  appearance  betrayed  his  discontented 
and  arbitrary  nature,  even  though  his  eyes  were 
hidden  as  Jie  bent  over  his  task.  Down  he  came, 
tall  and  slight,  his  patent-leather  boots  stepping 
methodically  in  the  centre  of  the  red  carpet. 
Whatever  he  did  he  always  looked  like  a  man 
engaged  in  some  mental  calculation;  anger, 


REDEMPTION  97 

smiles,  attention,  or  even  argument  could  scarcely 
dispel  his  air  of  absorbed  gravity.  As  he  turned 
the  corner  of  the  staircase,  M.  Lemarie  caught 
sight  of  Eloi  Madiot  standing  quite  still  several 
yards  below  him,  but  he  calmly  continued  his 
descent,  betraying  neither  surprise  nor  anger.  He 
carefully  smoothed  his  little  finger,  which  was  not 
properly  fitted  into  his  glove.  On  the  last  step  he 
stopped,  buttoning  his  gloves,  and  his  preoccu- 
pied eyes  rested  on  the  workman  with  a  glance 
of  imperative  question. 

"I  have  come  about  the  pension,"  said  Madiot. 

His  sound  hand  held  his  hat  like  a  shield  against 
his  breast;  but  as  he  answered,  with  an  instinctive 
movement  he  uncovered  the  wounded  hand 
trembling  in  its  red  cotton  sling,  and  the  master's 
eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  strange  pulsation 
of  the  injured  limb,  no  longer  under  control  of  the 
will  but  quivering  against  its  owner's  heart.  M. 
Lemarie  made  no  movement  of  anger,  as  Madiot 
expected.  He  had  turned  Antoine  out  on  a  former 
occasion  when  he  came  to  make  the  same  demand, 
but  Antoine  was  a  bad  workman,  and  a  disturber 
of  the  established  order.  But  in  the  present  case 
discipline  was  not  disturbed  nor  the  master's 
authority  questioned;  he  had  only  to  make  an 
unfortunate  but  worthy  man,  who  was  claiming 
more  than  his  due,  listen  to  reason.  M.  Lemarie 
sighed  like  a  man  overweighted  with  business 
and  to  whom  another  weight  is  added.  Then  he 
spoke  slowly  and  distinctly,  that  he  might  be 
better  understood  by  the  ignorant  listener. 

"Madiot,  I  sent  you  an  answer  in  the  first  place 


98  REDEMPTION 

through  my  cashier.  Then  I  was  obliged  to  turn 
out  your  nephew,  who  came  and  insolently  re- 
newed this  demand  for  a  pension.  I  cannot  keep 
on  indefinitely  returning  to  the  same  subject,  my 
good  man.  You  know  me;  I  never  give  in  when 
I  have  once  said  no." 

"But,  really,  M.  Lemarie",  you  are  unreason- 
able." 

' '  Excuse  me,  if  you  were  in  my  place  you  would 
do  just  the  same.  That  is  a  thing  you  people 
never  seem  to  grasp.  You  have  hurt  yourself;  I 
am  sincerely  sorry  for  it.  I  sent  you  my  own 
doctor;  I  paid  you  your  salary  for  the  first  month 
you  were  laid  up;  I  can  do  no  more,  Madiot,  be- 
cause if  I  gave  in  to  you,  to-morrow  I  should  have 
to  pension  all  my  workmen  who  managed  like  you 
to  get  hurt  by  their  own  negligence." 

"  After  thirty  years  in  your  service,  M.  Le- 
marie", one  of  your  oldest  workmen." 

"I  do  not  deny  it.  You  are  a  worthy  man. 
But  that  does  not  make  it  my  duty  to  provide 
you  with  an  income.  The  law  is  quite  clear. 
You  were  employed  in  easy  work,  not  in  the  least 
dangerous;  you  are  the  victim  of  your  own  clum- 
siness; how  can  I  help  it?" 

A  woman  in  mourning  was  coming  downstairs, 
but  Madiot,  in  his  emotion,  never  noticed  her. 
He  crossed  the  marble  hall  to  the  step  where  M. 
Lemarie  stood.  He  felt  his  chance  slipping  away; 
the  veins  of  his  neck  swelled  up.  He  looked  the 
smart  gentleman  up  and  down,  from  head  to  foot, 
thinking  that  he  would  probably  never  stand  face 
to  face  with  him  again,  and  the  words  he  had  hid- 


REDEMPTION  90 

den  in  his  heart  for  more  than  twenty  years  rose 
involuntarily  to  his  lips  in  a  gust  of  anger : 

"And  yet,  M.  Lemarie,"  he  exclaimed,  "the 
girl  I  have  brought  up,  Henriette " 

He  was  suddenly  aware  of  a  black  shadow  on 
the  staircase,  and  stopped  short. 

There  was  dead  silence  for  a  moment,  so  that 
the  buzzing  of  a  blue-bottle  against  the  window 
was  distinctly  audible. 

"Make  haste  and  pass,  Louise,"  said  M.  Lemarie, 
calmly;  "you  are  never  in  time,  and  you  give 
these  idiots  a  chance  to  make  scenes." 

Madame  Lemarie  continued  her  descent,  looking 
like  a  tower  surmounted  by  a  tuft  of  feathers. 
A  thick  veil  covered  her  face.  She  passed  between 
the  two  men,  the  master  effacing  himself  against 
the  wall,  and  the  workman  drawing  back  against 
the  ball  of  cut  glass  on  the  banisters.  Not  a  word 
fell  from  her  lips,  her  eyes  looked  straight  before 
her;  she  bowed  slightly  to  Madiot,  as  was  her 
charitable  habit  toward  her  inferiors.  With 
a  rustle  of  silk  and  a  jingling  of  jet  she  turned 
into  the  porch  and  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
hotel.  When  Madiot,  whom  respect  had  held 
silent,  advanced  toward  the  master  to  hear  his 
answer,  he  saw  M.  Lemarie's  imperious  hand 
pressing  a  button  like  that  on  the  front  door. 
The  footman  reappeared;  a  stream  of  white  light 
from  an  adjoining  room  flooded  the  hall  and  fell 
upon  Madiot.  M.  Lemarie,  leaning  carelessly 
against  the  banisters,  fixed  his  eyes  and  his  raised 
finger  upon  the  old  packer: 

"Maxime,  I  am  going  out  with  Madame,  if  this 


100  REDEMPTION 

man  does  not  follow  me  out,  telephone  for  the 
police." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  landau  with  the  pair  of 
bays  was  rolling  along  the  road  upon  the  bank  of 
the  Erdre,  taking  M.  Lemarie*  and  his  wife  to  call 
on  some  friends  in  the  country.  The  carriage  was 
only  open  in  front ;  Madame  Lemarie  sat  on  the 
back  seat  with  her  veil  raised  on  her  forehead,  her 
face  flushed  and  tear-stained,  and  her  eyes  obsti- 
nately fixed  on  the  horizon,  seeing  nothing. 

No  one  but  herself  knew  what  she  had  suf- 
fered since  the  day  M.  Lemarie  married  her  for 
her  fortune,  and  he  least  of  all.  She  was  the  vic- 
tim of  her  husband's  pretended  superiority;  no 
one  pitied  her,  neither  silence,  humility,  nor  any- 
thing else  could  save  her  from  the  mockery  of  the 
world,  because  she  occupied  a  place  of  which  she 
was  thought  unworthy.  She  had  chosen  to  suffer 
in  silence.  She  had  forgiven  her  husband's  un- 
faithfulness, the  contempt  of  others,  and  innu- 
merable slights.  She  had  effaced  herself  until  she 
had  no  voice  in  her  own  house.  She  had  reserved 
only  one  right — the  wife  of  a  business  man  upon 
whom  many  were  dependent — she  was  in  the 
habit  of  protesting,  once  for  all,  against  any  injus- 
tice done  to  any  other  than  herself,  after  which 
she  never  alluded  to  it  again.  She  had  overheard 
Eloi  Madiot's  violent  words,  and  remembered  the 
claim  already  put  forward  by  the  old  workman, 
and  she  had  said  to  her  husband:  "Why  do  you 
not  give  that  man  something;  I  think  you  are 
wrong."  Then  he  lost  his  temper,  or  rather  he 
turned  his  anger  on  her  as  Madiot  was  not  there. 


REDEMPTION  101 

Leaning  against  the  side  of  the  carriage  he  con- 
tinued speaking,  stopping  between  each  sentence 
to  observe  one  of  the  bays  which  had  gone  a  little 
lame: 

"I  repeat  that  neither  you  nor  your  son  under- 
stand anything  about  these  matters.  You,  at 
least,  are  capable  of  charity,  though  your  judg- 
ment is  not  sound;  but  as  to  him,  mark  my  words, 
Louise,  it  is  nothing  but  talk,  talk,  talk.  I  know 
this  generation  of  phrase-mongers." 

Madame  Louise  sighed.  "Let  Victor  alone," 
she  said,  trying  to  shield  her  spoilt  son,  "he  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  is  I  who  say  you  ought 
to  give  in.  Madiot  is  one  of  your  oldest  work- 
men, if  not  the  oldest.  If  you  are  afraid  of 
establishing  a  precedent  and  incurring  undue 
responsibility,  give  him  a  retiring  pension.  It 
would  not  bind  you  to  much,  after  thirty  years 
of  service." 

"No,  Madame,  I  do  not  give  retiring  pensions. 
.  I  shall  have  none  but  what  I  earn;  let  my  work- 
men do  the  same." 

They  both  relapsed  into  silence.  The  splendour 
of  summer  spread  its  millions  of  flowers  in  vain 
for  these  rich  people  as  they  passed.  The  renewed 
youth  of  the  earth  enveloped  them,  and  they  felt 
it  not.  Sometimes  a  fan-shaped  ravine  opened 
out  between  two  hills,  a  double  slope  of  coppice  or 
of  corn,  terminating  at  the  edge  of  the  cool  river 
with  its  overhanging  trees.  But  sorrow  and 
anger  are  blind. 

"You  spoke  of  charity  just  now,"  she  said, 
presently.  "Well!  give  some  help,  or  let  me " 


102  REDEMPTION 

Her  husband  interrupted  her  with  a  peremp- 
tory gesture : 

"No,  Madame,  no,  I  have  allowed  your  charity 
to  upset  my  decisions  or  my  rules  too  often.  This 
time  I  won't  have  it;  we  have  done  quite  enough. 
I  forbid  you  to  see  these  Madiots,  to  give  them 
anything,  or  take  any  notice  of  them  whatever." 

His  wife  turned  upon  him  brusquely,  contrary  to 
her  usual  habit  of  submission,  wounded  and  exas- 
perated by  this  restriction  of  the  only  liberty  she 
had: 

"But  why,  what  reason  can  you  have?" 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  in  surprise, 
noticing  the  heavy  faded  features,  the  lips  with 
their  sorrowful  droop,  the  high  cheek-bones,  the 
frightened  eyes,  and  the  tight  silk  bodice. 

"I  have  my  reasons,"  he  said,  coldly;  "please 
remember  that  you  are  out  calling  with  me.  Here 
we  are  at  Brasemont.  You  are  hideously  dressed." 

The  sand  of  the  Loire  rose  round  the  wheels  in 
fine  golden  dust,  and  sank  again  behind  the  car- 
riage. Trees  brushed  the  coachman's  shoulders 
with  their  branches. 

The  horses,  scenting  the  stable  of  the  chateau, 
strained  at  their  collars  and  made  for  the  borders 
of  the  avenue. 

Several  women,  keeping  cows  in  the  fields  be- 
hind the  hedges,  stood  on  tiptoe  and  cast  curious 
glances  at  the  rich  lady. 

At  dusk  the  same  evening  Eloi  Madiot  sat  lis- 
tening to  Henriette,  who  was  trying  to  reason  with 
him.  He  came  home  in  a  state  of  fury  just  as  she 


REDEMPTION  103 

returned  from  her  work;  she  found  him  armed 
with  violent  abuse  against  the  rich,  doubtless 
gathered  from  a  talk  with  his  nephew  Antoine, 
though  he  would  not  own  it.  Thinking  it  rather 
a  serious  case,  she  said  amiably: 

"Uncle,  we  must  sit  up  to-night.  I  have  some 
waists  to  finish — they  have  been  waiting  ever  so 
long!  We  will  spend  the  evening  in  my  room, 
and  we  will  have  tea  just  as  if  Monsieur  Lemari6 
had  given  you  the  pension.  Shall  we?" 

The  old  man  looked  upon  Henrietta's  room  as 
a  sacred  spot,  not  to  be  entered  without  permis- 
sion. To  sit  up  in  Henriette's  room  was  always  a 
treat  to  him.  It  was  the  lightest  and  largest  in 
the  flat.  It  was  furnished  with  a  wooden  bedstead 
with  white  cotton  curtains,  always  neatly  draped, 
trimmed  with  ball-fringe,  a  gilt  mirror,  an  ebony 
wardrobe  with  a  long  glass,  and  a  round  table  to 
match,  both  presents  from  a  little  work-room 
friend,  who  had  made  rather  a  good  match.  The 
table  was  covered  with  a  crochet  tablecloth,  and 
on  it  stood  a  china  vase  of  artificial  roses,  between 
two  piles  of  fashion  papers.  A  bookcase  with 
glass  doors,  and  several  cheap  water-colour 
prints,  views  of  Norway,  Switzerland  or  Italy, 
hung  on  the  walls.  A  statue  of  the  Virgin  stood 
on  an  ornamental  wooden  bracket  in  the  corner. 
A  rosary  of  large  beads  hung  round  her;  she  had 
a  face  of  penetrating  sweetness.  She  was  bless- 
ing, raising  three  fingers  in  remembrance  of  the 
Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

It  was  a  charming  room,  and  its  chief  charm 
was  the  soul  of  the  young  girl  which  seemed  to 


104  REDEMPTION 

animate  it,  even  in  her  absence.  The  arrangement 
of  the  furniture  showed  personal  taste.  Sometimes 
an  article  of  dress,  of  no  great  value,  but  prettily 
chosen,  lay  forgotten  on  a  chair;  a  white  muslin 
scarf,  a  waist-belt  with  a  fancy  buckle,  a  parasol, 
a  dress-front  trimmed  with  three-point  lace,  or  a 
pair  of  gloves  still  keeping  the  shape  of  the  slender 
hand,  always  a  little  bent  even  when  still,  from 
the  constant  habit  of  needlework.  Sometimes 
when  old  Eloi  was  dull  during  the  solitary  hours 
of  the  day,  for  Henriette  took  her  mid-day  meal 
at  the  work  room,  he  would  open  the  door  of  her 
room  and  look  in  without  crossing  the  threshold, 
delighting  his  eyes  with  the  sight  of  these  things 
which  reminded  him  of  two  deep-blue  eyes,  and 
the  face  of  a  beautiful  young  woman;  then  he 
would  go  for  a  walk  in  the  town,  refreshed  by  the 
thought  of  his  little  girl  and  his  pride  in  her. 

This  evening,  hoping  to  console  her  uncle,  Hen- 
riette had  cunningly  drawn  up  the  only  arm-chair, 
covered  in  tapestry,  which  no  one  ever  sat  in;  she 
sat  by  the  table,  near  the  lamp,  covered  by  the 
best  lamp-shade,  busy  with  her  sewing.  Her  deft 
fingers  were  arranging  a  piece  of  cheap  lace  trim- 
ming on  the  neck  and  sleeves  of  a  waist.  Some- 
times she  put  down  her  work  to  take  up  the  scis- 
sors or  the  lace  rolled  on  a  piece  of  blue  tissue 
paper.  Then  her  eyes  would  rest  on  Uncle  Madiot 
in  the  arm-chair,  or  on  the  open  window  through 
which  sudden  gusts  of  wind  kept  blowing  in. 
When  the 'wind  was  strong  they  could  hear  the 
branches  of  the  rose  laurel  brushing  against  the 
wall  or  balcony.  Sometimes  the  sound  of  oars 


REDEMPTION  105 

rose  from  the  Loire,  and  Henriette  listened  with 
a  smile.  She  felt  happy  because  Marie  had  been 
so  well  received  at  Madame  Clemence's,  and  be- 
cause to-night  she  was  filling  her  favourite  role  of 
consoler  to  her  uncle. 

"You  should  not  make  yourself  miserable  be- 
cause of  Monsieur  Lemarie's  refusal,  uncle,"  she 
said.  "You  have  done  your  best,  and  you  have 
failed ;  what  is  the  use  of  getting  angry,  and  talk- 
ing about  law-suits?  Poor  people  like  us  are 
feeble  enemies." 

"He  has  stolen  my  pension!" 

"We  have  always  managed  to  live — I  admit 
that  we  have  not  always  been  rich,"  she  said, 
casting  a  satisfied  glance  at  her  wardrobe  and 
water-colours,  "but  the  years  of  misery  are  past; 
Antoine  is  earning  his  living,  and  so  am  I.  Do 
you  know  what  Madame  Clemence  said  to  me  last 
Saturday?  She  said:  'You  little  artist!'  with  a 
look  that  meant  a  good  deal,  if  I  am  not  mistaken. 
Wouldn't  you  be  glad,  uncle,  if  your  niece  was 
made  forewoman?  Forewoman  to  the  leading 
milliner  in  Nantes!  Well!  it  may  happen  any 
day.  Mademoiselle  Augustine  is  going  downhill 
fast."  She  gave  a  fresh  young  laugh  as  she  held 
her  needle  like  a  lance  between  her  fingers.  ' '  With 
us,  in  fashionable  shops,  it  is  woe  to  the  old!" 

"It  is  the  same  with  us,"  said  Madiot,  "woe  to 
the  old!" 

Henriette  realized  that  her  laughter  was  cruel; 
she  bit  her  lip,  which  had  so  thoughtlessly  in- 
sulted a  companion's  misfortune. 

"You  may  be  quite  sure,  uncle,  that  I  would 


106  REDEMPTION 

never  try  to  get  her  place.  But  you  see  it  is  my 
turn  to  rise  now." 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment. 
Henriette,  in  the  involuntary  exaltation  of  youth, 
he  broken  down,  listening  to  what  she  said  almost 
against  his  will  when  the  sound  of  her  voice  broke 
in  upon  his  sadness,  to  which  he  reverted  as  soon 
as  she  was  silent.  Why  could  she  not  cheer  him? 
Why  did  he  sit  sunk  in  the  tapestry  arm-chair, 
with  never  a  movement  but  the  quivering  of  his 
eyelids?  She  could  not  understand  why  the  failure 
of  his  errand  in  the  afternoon,  which  they  had 
fully  expected,  should  have  upset  him  so  much, 
and  she  attributed  his  unappeasable  anger  to 
something  which  Antoine  must  have  said  to  him. 

Presently  she  spoke  again,  driving  her  needle 
through  her  work : 

"What  ages  it  seems  since  the  first  day  of  my 
apprenticeship!  Do  you  remember,  how  you  left 
me  at  the  door  of  Mademoiselle  Laure's  work 
room;  she  used  to  make  country  bonnets?  And 
do  you  remember  how  you  were  nearly  frozen 
waiting  for  me  outside  for  an  hour?  I  was  only 
a  little  thing  then,  but  we  loved  each  other  dearly 
even  then,  you  and  I!" 

In  vain  she  recalled  the  past  and  appealed  to 
her  uncle's  unfailing  devotion  to  herself.  The  old 
man  was  overcome  with  remorse  and  shame. 

"I  nearly  let  everything  out,"  he  thought  to 
himself,  "I,  a  man,  and  an  old  soldier!  A  mo- 
ment more  and  I  should  have  forced  him  to  pay 
me  by  dishonouring  her  before  the  master's  wife! 
After  keeping  the  secret  in  my  heart  for  more 


REDEMPTION  107 

than  twenty-four  years.  How  could  I?  Don't 
I  love  her?  Am  I  a  coward?" 

As  he  looked  at  her  he  knew  it  was  not  so,  and 
that  he  loved  her  above  all  things.  But  the 
shame  remained,  and  with  it  the  remembrance  of 
the  lamentable  past  filled  his  mind  so  that  he 
could  not  shake  it  off  as  usual. 

"Uncle,  if  I  am  made  forewoman,  I  shall  get 
higher  wages;  we  shall  be  quite  rich.  I  shall  take 
you  for  a  little  trip,  with  my  savings.  Right  up 
to  the  mouth  of  the  Loire.  Etienne  has  promised 
to  take  me  in  his  boat." 

She  laughed,  hoping  to  make  him  happy.  She 
was  used  to  seeing  his  humour  change  at  an  affec- 
tionate word  from  her.  But  this  time  tears  rose  in 
her  uncle's  eyes. 

"When  I  think  that  I  nearly  betrayed  her! 
Oh!  to  think  of  it!" 

Henriette  put  down  her  work.  She  leaned  for- 
ward and  stroked  the  thick  wrinkled  hand  tightly 
clenched  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  uncle?" 

He  bent  his  head,  lest  she  should  read  the  truth 
in  his  eyes. 

The  rose  laurel  quivered  in  the  wind,  and  tossed 
its  branches  in  at  the  window.  A  voice  which 
seemed  to  come  from  the  street,  muffled  and  dead- 
ened by  the  wind,  was  heard  calling: 

"Hello  there!  up  at  Madiot's." 

The  old  man  listened.  "Who  cculd  be  calling 
at  this  hour?" 

"Hello  there!  come  and  look!" 

Eloi  Madiot  got  up  from  his  chair;   Henriette 


108  REDEMPTION 

was  on  her  feet  already.  Groping  their  way  acroBS 
the  dark  room,  they  climbed  out  upon  the  bal- 
cony, for  the  window  was  only  raised  a  few  inches 
from  the  floor.  The  girl,  stretching  her  head 
under  the  branches  of  the  laurel,  saw  half  a  human 
shape,  surmounted  by  a  cap,  waving  an  arm  from 
the  window  of  the  next  story,  toward  some  spot 
in  the  distance. 

"It  is  Madame  Logeret,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper; 
"what  can  it  be?" 

At  the  same  moment  the  voice  called  for  the 
third  time,  hoarse  and  muffled,  like  a  cry  for  help : 

"Where  are  you,  Monsieur  Madiot?  Look  out, 
over  there!  There's  a  fire !" 

The  old  man's  deep  bass  replied: 

"All  right,  I'm  here,  be  quiet!" 

Silence  fell  again  on  the  narrow  house,  which 
commanded  a  view  of  the  whole  town.  The  three 
inhabitants  were  anxiously  trying  to  ascertain 
the  exact  spot  where  the  fire  had  broken  out,  in 
the  thick  darkness. 

A  fire  was  smouldering  beyond  the  first  branch 
of  the  Loire.  At  what  distance,  in  which  corner  of 
the  factory  districts,  or  even  on  which  of  the 
islands  it  was  impossible  to  guess.  The  darkness 
hid  every  landmark.  Nothing  was  visible  on  the 
left  bank  of  the  murky  waters  but  the  ships  hud- 
dled together,  and  the  irregular  lines  of  lamp- 
posts, against  the  immense  field  of  darkness 
formed  by  the  earth  and  sky.  There  were  islands 
of  light  that  seemed  to  rise  above  the  horizon  like 
stars:  clustered  groups  of  lamps,  dark  spaces, 
and  long  curved  lines  of  single  lamps.  The  lighted 


REDEMPTION  109 

spaces  were  but  small  in  comparison  with  the 
darkness,  and  the  lamps  threw  no  light  upon  sur- 
rounding objects;  they  looked  quite  different 
from  the  same  view  by  day  and  seemed  all  of  one 
size.  All  accurate  notion  of  distance  was  lost. 
But  two  lines  of  red  light  stood  out  against  the 
night,  one  above  the  other,  probably  from  two 
rows  of  windows  which  reflected  the  glow  of  the 
invisible  flames. 

Their  light  varied  every  moment  as  the  fire 
gained  ground  to  the  left  or  right.  A  shower  of 
sparks  rose  from  the  first  line  and  shot  up  into  the 
darkness  higher  than  a  cathedral  spire,  then  a 
tongue  of  vivid  flame  followed,  licking  the  out- 
side wall,  and  died  down  again. 

"The  house  is  done  for,"  said  Madiot,  "the 
outside  walls  are  catching  fire." 

Henriette  shivered  as  she  stood  beside  him. 

"Poor  things!"  she  cried;  and  they  were  silent 
once  more. 

The  colour  of  the  two  red  lines  grew  more  and 
more  vivid,  flames  burst  out  here  and  there,  end- 
ing in  volumes  of  smoke,  the  first  dancing  wreaths 
of  which  showed  pink  against  the  darkness.  Then 
cries  of  terror  rose  upon  the  wind,  sounding  like 
holiday  acclamations,  for  the  voice  of  a  distant 
crowd  has  but  one  note.  Then  suddenly  the  roof 
fell  in,  and  the  whole  building  became  a  fiery  fur- 
nace, vomiting  flame,  smoke,  and  ashes,  which 
rose  and  fell  with  the  wind.  The  clouds  above 
glowed  brick-red.  A  light  mixed  with  burning 
dust  illumined  a  quarter  of  the  town,  showing 
streets,  squares,  chimneys,  and  slate  roofs  covered 


110  REDEMPTION 

by  moving  shadows.  Old  Madiot  fell  back  over- 
come with  emotion  and  leant  against  the  wall. 
His  face  showed  deadly  white  in  the  light  of  the 
conflagration. 

"Henriette!    Henriette!"  he  gasped. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  wounded  arm. 

"What  is  it?    Where  is  it?" 

"Henriette!  It  is  LemariS's  factory,"  he  cried, 
in  a  voice  of  horror. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"I  know  my  own  workshop.  It  is  reaching  the 
warehouse.  Let  me  go!" 

"You  can't — at  your  age — with  only  one  arm; 
no,  I  won't  let  you!" 

He  pushed  past  her,  groped  his  way  across  the 
kitchen,  seized  his  hat,  and  slammed  the  door 
behind  him,  crying: 

' '  I  must !   I  must !    Our  place  is  on  fire ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  IX. 


ELOI  MADIOT  did  not  come  home  till  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  He  was  tired  out,  his  clothes  were 
soaking  wet  and  blackened  by  the  smoke,  and  he 
fell  asleep.  As  he  had  related  before  going  to  bed, 
all  the  Lemarie'  factory  was  burned  down:  work 
shops,  storage-room,  stock,  offices,  foreman's 
house — all,  in  fact.  After  fifty  years  of  existence 
the  whole  machinery,  created  by  two  generations, 
had  suddenly  sunk  to  ruin,  and  the  earth  lay  bare 
and  desolate  again,  and  ready  for  new  buildings, 
while  here  and  there  useless  fragments  of  the 
ruins  lay  around,  telling  no  tale  of  the  enormous 
amount  of  life,  toil,  and  bold  enterprise  that  had 
been  at  work  there. 

Near  the  river,  wrapped  in  the  mist  of  dawn, 
Henriette,  on  opening  her  window,  saw  the  smoke 
arise,  white  with  the  vapour  from  the  water  and 
blackened  with  clouds  of  soot  from  the  only  partly 
extinguished  wreckage.  The  death-struggle  even 
of  inanimate  things  is  sad  to  watch.  Henriette 
had  remained  under  the  impression  of  this  sight 
and  of  the  fright  of  yesterday,  when  the  roofs  of 
the  factory  fell  down  into  the  flames.  She  went 
to  her  room,  passed  to  and  fro,  and  did  her  house- 
hold work  as  usual.  She  remembered  her  meet- 
ing with  Victor  Lemarie"  two  days  before  at  the 

in 


112  REDEMPTION 

corner  of  Rue  Voltaire,  the  bow  with  which  he 
greeted  her,  and  the  fine  fit  of  the  horse's  harness, 
which  she  had  noticed  in  passing.  She  also  re- 
membered— dear  me,  how  heavy  the  mattress 
seemed  this  morning  as  she  turned  it,  and  how 
storm-laden  was  the  air  that  entered  the  window 
—she  remembered  having  once  seen  Victor  Le- 
marie's  father,  the  manufacturer.  It  was  a  long 
time,  five  or  six  years  ago  now.  He  had  presided 
at  a  festival  of  the  Gymnastic  Society,  and  deliv- 
ered a  speech  from  a  platform  draped  with  the 
tricolour  and  filled  with  fine  folk.  He  gesticu- 
lated above  the  heads  of  the  gymnasts,  who  were 
crowding  at  the  foot  of  the  tent  and  applauding. 
The  ladies,  officers,  and  common  people,  who 
were  sitting  on  one  side,  did  not  listen.  From  her 
place  Henriette  heard  nothing.  She  only  saw  a 
hard  face  which  tried  to  smile,  a  white  beard  that 
was  moving,  and  rapid  motion  of  arms  that  did 
not  bend  or  exaggerate.  Some  one  beside  her  re- 
marked: "Talk  away,  old  boy,  go  it.  That's  why 
you  are  so  hated."  The  remembrance  of  this 
fete,  the  outline  of  the  man  and  his  words  came 
back  to  her.  And  now,  what  feverish  excitement 
there  must  be  in  the  employer's  house,  and 
among  the  workmen,  too,  who  were  all  at  once 
discharged  by  the  fire.  The  young  girl  finished 
smoothing  and  arranging  the  sheets  on  her  bed, 
and  straightened  the  folds  by  running  her  hand  all 
along  the  mattress.  Then  she  arranged  the  cur- 
tains and  drew  them  close  together,  leaving  but 
a  shadowy  slit  between  them. 
Outside  the  newsboys  were  already  at  work. 


REDEMPTION  113 

"Great  fire!  Factory  destroyed!  Latest  news!" 
they  cried. 

At  eight  o'clock,  half  an  hour  earlier  than 
usual,  she  was  outside.  The  news  was  known  and 
discussed  everywhere.  It  filled  the  town.  The 
custom-house  officials  talked  about  it  with  the 
lightermen,  the  milkmen  with  their  customers, 
and  the  proprietors  of  cafes  with  the  people  who 
came  in  to  have  an  early  drink  and  wiped  their  lips 
with  the  backs  of  their  hands  as  they  went  out. 
Everybody  had  seen  the  drama  either  close  to  or 
from  a  distance,  every  one  knew  some  fresh  un- 
published fact  which  was  promptly  added  to  the 
gloomy  account  that  varied  but  little.  The  pop- 
ular imagination  was  hard  at  work  upon  the  fear- 
ful theme :  the  night,  the  raging  gale,  the  firemen 
on  the  roofs  reddened  by  the  flames,  the  total 
destruction  of  human  property.  From  the  rue 
de  1'Ermitage  to  the  tobacco  factory  there  was 
not  a  house  possessed  of  a  window,  a  door  or  a 
sky-light,  from  which  some  woman  did  not  look 
out,  if  only  for  a  moment,  to  feel  for  and  meditate 
upon  the  white  smoke  that  was  still  rising  from 
the  ruins. 

At  Madame  Clemence's  the  work-room  girls 
were  in  a  great  state  of  excitement.  When  Henri- 
ette  entered  at  half-past  eight  the  first  comers 
were  already  talking  at  the  tops  of  their  voices 
between  the  two  tables.  Their  sunshades  were 
still  in  their  hands,  their  hats  were  on  their  heads, 
and  they  paid  no  attention  to  the  remonstrances 
of  Mademoiselle  Augustine,  who  had  sat  down  in 
a  protesting  manner  and  was  repeating  sharply: 


114  REDEMPTION 

"  Go  on,  girls,  if  you  like,  but  I  shall  tell  Madame 
Clemence  all  about  it . "  They  did  not  listen .  They 
were  excited  and  in  a  hurry  to  tell  what  they  knew. 

"I  was  going  to  bed.  I  had  been  reading  a 
book,"  said  one. 

"I  was  asleep.  The  noise  of  the  fire-engine 
woke  me.  I  ran  to  the  window  in  my  nightdress. 
It  was  so  cold.  A  man  shouted,  'It's  in  the  He 
Gloriette  quarter/  So  I  went  back  to  bed.  It 
was  far  away." 

"It  was  the  reflection  on  the  windows  that 
frightened  me.  It  might  have  been  in  my  room. 
I  watched,  and  I  could  only  see  a  pillar  of  flame 
in  the  dark.  And  I  could  hear  nothing.  Are 
there  two  men  hurt?" 

"No,  three  were  injured  by  the  beams.  They 
have  been  taken  to  the  hospital.  I  read  it  in  the 
paper  coming  here.  Here  you  are,  here  is  the 
article — a  million  loss." 

The  enormity  of  the  sum  produced  silence.  The 
pretty  young  heads  were  bending  over  the  paper 
which  Mademoiselle  Irma  held.  Marie  Schwarz, 
standing  at  the  back  in  her  poor  shabby  dress, 
ventured  to  approach  Henriette,  who,  with  raised 
arms  and  chest  out,  was  carefully  freeing  her  hair 
that  had  got  entangled  in  the  straw  of  her  hat. 
Her  black  eyes  smiled. 

The  door  opened.  The  apprentice  Louise  en- 
tered, shaking  her  head  with  its  red  hair  and 
chubby  cheeks,  and  saying: 

"Well,  there's  something  else  happened." 

She  had  an  important  air  about  her,  like  a  child 
that  knows  a  secret. 


REDEMPTION  115 

"And  something  important  too." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"Girls,  you  may  not  believe  me,  but  Monsieur 
Lemarie  is  dead." 

They  all  looked  up.  Mademoiselle  Augustine 
stopped  working,  and  said  sharply: 

"My  dear,  you  are  telling  stories  to  amuse  the 
young  ladies.  Isn't  that  it?  Go  to  your  seat." 

To  show  the  truth  of  her  statement  the  appren- 
tice dropped  her  arms  down  on  to  her  dress,  and 
her  poor  shoes,  that  were  letting  in  the  water 
everywhere,  became  visible. 

"Not  at  all,  Mademoiselle.  To  prove  to  you 
that  I'm  right,  I  may  say  that  our  neighbour  is  a 
joiner  who  works  up  at  the  big  house.  He  heard 
it  just  now.  The  master  went  to  look  at  the  fire 
about  eleven  o'clock  last  night.  It  shocked  him 
so,  to  see  all  his  property  burnt,  that  he  dropped 
down.  They  took  him  home,  and  he  died  before 
he  could  be  told  that  the  fire  was  out.  It's  the 
truth  I'm  telling  you.  Even  the  priest  arrived 
ten  minutes  too  late.  So  you  see " 

"It's  really  too  much  all  at  once,"  said  some  one. 

There  was  no  reply.  Death  the  inevitable  had 
been  mentioned,  and  as  the  stones  shiver  all  along 
a  street  when  a  wagon  is  passing,  so  their  souls 
quivered  as  they  heard  the  name  of  Death.  The 
stools  were  brought  nearer  to  the  tables,  hats  and 
coats  were  put  into  the  cupboard,  and  the  noise 
of  cotton  reels  and  scissors  laid  on  the  smooth  silk 
stuffs  showed  that  the  work  was  beginning  as  on 
every  other  morning.  Henriette,  enervated  and 
distracted  by  the  storm  and  the  bad  night,  picked 


116  REDEMPTION 

up  her  skirts  to  sit  down,  and  looked  round  with 
clear  eyes  on  the  gathering  of  girls.  The  teeth  of 
laughing  Mademoiselle  Cecile,  the  dimples  of 
Mademoiselle  Anne,  a  Normandy  lass  with  a 
milky-white  complexion  who  was  Henriette's 
assistant,  and  the  morning  glint  in  all  their  eyes, 
were  no  longer  visible.  They  were  all  quiet  now, 
some  devoid  of  all  expression,  some  serious  and 
even  grave,  busy  in  preparing  their  work.  Made- 
moiselle Reine,  who  was  sitting  nearest  to  the  fore- 
woman, and  who  had  a  face  like  a  saint  in  a 
stained-glass  window,  was  sitting  with  downcast 
eyes,  while  her  lips  were  slightly  moving. 

Within  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  two  or  three 
other  young  girls  came  in,  with  a  certain  excite- 
ment clinging  to  the  very  folds  of  their  dresses. 
They  confirmed  the  news  brought  by  the  appren- 
tice. M.  Lemarie  had  died  of  congestion  of  the 
brain  without  having  recovered  consciousness. 
The  windows  of  his  house  were  shut,  it  was  re- 
ported. The  factory  would  not  be  rebuilt,  at 
least  not  by  the  manufacturer's  family.  A  rumour 
was  also  afloat  that  a  claim  for  the  relief  of  the 
workmen  would  be  placed  before  the  Municipal 
Council. 

Gradually  the  great  interest,  the  prospects,  the 
expectation  that  centred  round  the  death  dis- 
persed the  gloomy  impression.  Silk  roses,  velvet 
bands,  bunches  of  marguerites  or  corn-flowers 
began  to  take  their  places  on  the  shapes.  With 
a  slight  pricking  sound  the  needles  pierced  the 
materials  and  the  straw.  The  milliners  placed 
their  prospective  masterpieces  on  their  clenched 


REDEMPTION  117 

fists,  held  them  at  arm's  length,  turned  them 
round  in  order  to  take  stock  of  them,  and  brought 
them  close  again. 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  have  an  order  from  Madame 
Lemarie,"  said  Mademoiselle  Augustine,  who 
took  the  long  silence  as  a  personal  compliment. 
"I  have  been  working  for  her  for  more  than  ten 
years  now." 

Mademoiselle  Irma,  who  had  the  largest  and 
most  restless  eyes  of  all  the  girls,  and  was  a  bit  of 
an  artist  and  hated  the  first  hand,  answered  from 
the  other  end  of  the  same  table : 

"I  don't  envy  you,  Mademoiselle;  a  mourning 
hat!" 

"One  can  make  them  more  or  less  elegant." 

"Never:  a  bit  of  crape,  a  band,  a  veil  the  whole 
length  of  the  dress;  you  can't  do  anything  with 
that." 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"I  beg  yours.    Such  hats  are  horrors." 

"No,  Mademoiselle,  not  my  hats." 

"After  all,  you  would  not  put  them  on  your 
own  head,  nor  would  I." 

Mademoiselle  Augustine  was  vexed,  but  tried 
to  laugh.  Three  wrinkles  puckered  up  her  pim- 
pled face,  and  she  retorted: 

"There  is  no  reason  for  it.    I  am  not  a  widow." 

Stifled  laughter  was  heard  all  round.  Made- 
moiselle Lucie,  the  apprentice,  who  sat  two  seats 
away  from  Henrietta,  and  always  had  moist, 
clammy  hands,  bent  over  her  frame  and  mur- 
mured : 

"Dear  me,  I  should  think  not." 


118  REDEMPTION 

Henriette,  who  was  sitting  opposite  Mademoi- 
selle Augustine,  and  did  not  want  to  laugh, 
said: 

"They  say  that  Madame  Lemarie  is  very  good." 

This  brought  out  various  comments  from  every 
part  of  the  room. 

"  She's  better  than  her  husband.  He  did  not 
like  the  workmen.  He  was  a  bad  wealthy  man." 

"  There  isn't  such  a  thing  as  a  good  wealthy 
man." 

"Look  at  Mourieux.  He  isn't  rich.  He  earns 
his  living  like  the  rest  of  us,  perhaps  a  bit  better." 

"He  sells  his  flowers  rather  dear,  but  I  like  him 
for  all  that.  When  he  smiles  you  feel  you  can 
trust  him;  but  Lemarie* — you  could  never  get  a 
word  out  of  him  if  you  asked  him  for  anything. 
It  was  all  orders,  orders,  nothing  but  orders." 

"My  mother  told  me  that  the  day  he  set  his 
two  machines  for  shelling  peas  going,  two  hundred 
women  were  thrown  out  of  work.  They  were  all  his 
workers,  and  they  were  mothers  too.  My  mother 
was  one  of  them.  They  went  to  his  office  to  ask 
for  respite  or  assistance.  He  replied:  'Everyone 
for  himself.  A  shelling  machine  saves  me  the  cost 
of  four  hundred  women.  I  bought  the  machines 
and  discharged  the  women.  I  am  well  within  my 
rights.'  Do  you  think  that's  fair?  " 

"He  was  right.  He  could  not  afford  to  lose 
through  us." 

"And  the  prices  he  paid!  You  could  just  earn 
your  bread  at  his  place  and  no  more.  While  he 
was  making  millions!" 

"And  insulted  all  the  pretty  girls." 


REDEMPTION  119 

The  young  girl  who  had  spoken  blushed  on  see- 
ing several  heads  slowly  raised  from  their  work. 
She  at  once  added: 

"I  know  that's  the  case,  because  I've  been 
told  so." 

Irma  was  too  smart  for  an  employee  who 
earned  her  fifty  francs  a  month.  She  was  pale 
and  her  eyes  were  black-ringed.  She  was  very 
artistic  and  capricious,  and  there  was  a  note  of 
passion  in  her  voice  and  in  her  whole  being  that 
made  people  listen  to  her  when  she  spoke.  She 
continued : 

"And  yet  that  man  seized  the  wealth  of  the 
poor.  Have  you  ever  read  'Looking  Backward/ 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne?" 

"No;  who  wrote  it?" 

"An  American,  Bellamy  by  name.  I  have  read 
it  three  times.  He  shows  what  society  will  be  like 
at  the  end  of  the  twentieth  century.  We  shan't 
be  alive  then,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  for  life  will  be 
more  worth  living  then." 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?  Are  you  a 
socialist?  Do  you  like  socialists?" 

The  young  girl  answered  very  seriously,  never 
leaving  off  work  and  still  twining  a  wreath  of  con- 
volvulus round  a  white  straw  shape  with  perfect 
taste : 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  have  been  to  several  of  their 
meetings.  I  do  not  understand  all  their  theories, 
but  at  least  they  admit  that  we  do  suffer  and 
ought  to  complain.  Life  is  so  dull." 

"I  have  read  some  novels  by  Eliot,"  remarked 
Mademoiselle  Reine.  "They  worried  me,  and 


120  REDEMPTION 

yet  I  have  a  feeling  that  all  those  fine  phrases  are 
nothing  more  than  a  written  dream." 

"Is  it  a  dream  to  ask  for  justice?" 

Reine,  who  was  nervous,  too,  raised  her  slender 
neck,  which  was  of  the  colour  of  old  ivory. 

"I  do  not  trust  them,"  she  replied.  "What 
reason  have  they  for  loving  others  so  much?  I 
should  understand  it  if  they  believed  in  God." 

"There's  a  pious  girl  for  you." 

"Well,  it's  true." 

"It  is  just  because  they  expect  nothing  from 
an  after-life  that  they  claim  their  rights  in  this. 
Not  every  one  can  believe  in  God  and  give  them- 
selves up  to  piety  as  you  do.  There  are  some  who 
suffer,  without  having  done  anything  to  deserve 
it,  and  they  rebel.  I  do  so." 

Answers  came  in  quick  undertones,  for  it  was 
a  question  that  went  home  to  them  all. 

"I  do,  too — I  don't — I  do  sometimes — there, 
now,  I've  broken  my  needle." 

Henriette  had  for  the  past  few  moments  been 
engrossed  in  attentively  comparing  three  pieces 
of  ribbon  which  had  to  be  matched  with  some 
mauve  flowers  of  the  newest  fashion.  She  un- 
folded them,  gathered  them  up,  and  compared 
the  patterns  with  half-closed  eyes,  so  as  to  better 
gauge  the  shading. 

On  hearing  the  ideas  of  these  young  girls  of  six- 
teen or  eighteen,  she,  the  elder,  could  not  keep 
from  nodding  her  approval.  Mademoiselle  Irma 
noticed  it,  and  said: 

"Oh,  and  what  about  you,  Mademoiselle  Hen- 
riette?" 


REDEMPTION  121 

"Why?   What  about  me?" 

"Your  ideas  are  well  known.  You  have  no 
need  to  speak  about  them.  You  are  virtue,  wis- 
dom, and  reason  personified,  a  young  lady  who 
cannot  fall." 

"Luckily;  one  hurts  oneself  when  one  does," 
she  replied,  with  a  laugh. 

The  young  girl  to  whom  she  had  been  speaking 
looked  at  her  severely  and  said  nothing.  The 
talk  went  on  amid  the  scissors,  pins,  and  thim- 
bles. Each  mind  was  taking  its  own  course  into 
a  region  where  no  soul  may  follow  any  other  soul, 
into  the  land  of  dreams,  which  is  a  trackless  land. 
It  was  getting  hotter.  The  air  that  came  in 
through  the  half-opened  window  was  laden  with 
electricity  which  had  a  choking  effect,  and  was 
quickly  rejected  by  the  lungs  like  poison.  Drops 
of  perspiration  stood  on  their  bare  necks.  From 
time  to  time  an  impatient  tapping  of  a  shoe  heel 
on  the  floor,  or  the  drumming  of  five  fingers  on 
the  table,  might  be  heard.  New  ideas  were  slower 
in  coming;  they  were  getting  tired  and  inclined 
to  dream. 

The  death  of  M.  Lemarie  had  been  forgotten. 

"It  is  time  the  season  was  over,"  said  fat 
Lucie,  who  was  almost  choking.  "I  would  rather 
not  have  a  sou  in  the  house  than  work  in  such 
heat." 

The  remark  had  apparently  no  effect  upon  the 
young  girls.  But  it  had  stirred  them,  just  as  an 
oar-thrust  stirs  the  waters.  There  is  never  a  ripple 
on  the  surface;  the  reeds  have  never  moved,  the 
very  flies  are  still  sipping  the  wild  honey  in  the 


122  REDEMPTION 

heart  of  the  yellow  water-lilies.  But  a  current  of 
air  has  passed  through.  It  has  stirred  even  the 
roots  and  the  buds  that  lie  hidden  in  the  grass. 
How  would  it  be  to  leave  the  work  shop?  Of 
course  the  slack  season  was  coming  on,  and  with 
it  days  of  freedom  and  distress;  days  when  it 
would  be  hard  to  get  bread  on  credit,  when  it 
would  be  doubtful  whether  one  could  come  back 
to  the  same  employer,  besieged  as  she  was  by  new 
hands;  days  when  thoughts  of  death  flit  through 
the  mind  in  the  interval  between  two  pleasure 
outings  or  two  long  spells  of  forced  idleness.  En- 
forced holidays,  servile  toil,  mothers  who  under- 
stood them  not,  temptations  that  come  when  one 
is  twenty  and  that  no  work  can  overcome,  sad 
stories  of  the  past,  the  misery  of  living  alone. 
That  was  all  coming.  It  was  close  at  hand. 

A  white  shaft  of  light  flooded  the  ceiling  at 
right  angles;  it  was  the  reflection  from  a  con- 
servatory which  they  were  accustomed  to  see  at 
eleven  o'clock  in  summer. 

The  girls  looked  up  at  it. 

At  the  same  moment  one  of  the  young  girls 
began  to  sob.  She  cried,  burying  her  hands  in 
her  hair  and  pressing  her  heaving  breast  against 
the  table.  Her  companions  did  not  seem  sur- 
prised, but  went  on  all  the  more  eagerly  bending 
their  heads  over  their  work,  so  that  the  one  who 
was  crying  need  not  feel  ashamed.  They  always 
did  that  for  each  other.  Hardly  a  week  passed 
but  one  of  these  children  lost  heart  and  gave  way 
to  tears,  overcome  by  a  grief  that  was  often  un- 
known to  the  others. 


REDEMPTION  123 

This  time  it  was  Irma  of  the  great  eyes,  Irma 
the  socialist.  They  let  her  calm  down,  dry  her 
tears  and  rearrange  her  hair. 

Every  one  knew  that  two  days  ago  her  lover  had 
left  her. 

Madame  Clemence  came  in.  She  did  not  seem 
to  notice  anything.  She  smiled  from  under  her 
frizzed  and  powdered  wig.  She  held  a  hand  mir- 
ror in  two  fingers  and  stopped  a  moment  behind 
each  worker,  while  to  judge  from  her  face  and 
speech  she  might  have  been  visiting  a  collection 
of  curios  in  some  pleasure-house. 

It  was  her  principle  to  encourage  the  workers. 

"Very  good — a  charming  idea. — Mauve  and 
violet,  Mademoiselle  Jeanne,  would  be  better  still. 
— Mademoiselle  Mathilde,  just  raise  that  brim; 
two  bunches  of  violette  in  the  fold  of  the  straw — 
two  or  three  leaves  there,  just  quite  naturally, 
you  know!  Light  shades,  don't  you  think?  Our 
client  is  fair,  you  know. — Mademoiselle  Henri- 
ette,  you  get  better  every  day.  It  is  you  who  have 
earned  me  the  thanks  of  the  little  Countess 
Zaniska  and  Madame  de  Streville.  Give  a  little 
softer  curve  to  your  plumes,  Mademoiselle  Reine. 
See,  make  them  come  so,  and  you  have  a  master- 
piece. Stretch  your  shape  a  little  more,  Made- 
moiselle Reine,  you  don't  frame  it  enough.  But 
the  model  is  good.  You  must  have  it  copied, 
Mademoiselle  Augustine.  By  the  way,  the  two 
straw  hats  trimmed  with  roses  for  the  general's 
daughters  will  be  done  by  this  evening,  I  suppose. 
They  are  leaving  for  the  country,  and  the  hats 
have  been  promised." 


124  REDEMPTION 

"  Mademoiselle  Irma  is  doing  them,"  replied  the 
first  hand. 

Madame  Clemence  glanced  at  the  weeping  girl, 
and  took  care  to  say  nothing.  She  next  noticed 
Marie  Schwarz: 

"And  what  are  you  doing?" 

"I  am  putting  in  the  lining;  it  drags." 

The  chief  was  just  going  to  leave,  as  her  visit 
was  over,  when  she  remembered  that  she  had  to 
give  an  order.  She  let  go  the  copper  door-handle 
which  she  had  already  grasped,  took  two  steps 
back,  and  bending  over  Henriette,  who  was  seated 
at  the  end  of  one  of  the  tables,  said  to  her  rather 
quietly : 

"Mademoiselle  Henriette,  will  you  please  go 
round  to  Madame  Lemarie  directly  after  dinner. 
She  wants  you." 

Subdued  as  were  the  tones  in  which  Madame 
Clemence  had  spoken,  several  of  the  workers  had 
nevertheless  overheard  her  words  and  were  aston- 
ished. Mademoiselle  Augustine  assumed  her 
offended  air,  and  sat  stiffly  on  her  stool.  The 
chief  saw  the  necessity  of  commenting  on  her 
order,  to  prevent  bad  feeling  between  two  of  her 
best  workers. 

"I  have  just  this  moment  heard  from  Madame 
Lemarie".  She  wants  you  personally.  You  will 
take  three  of  our  models,  with  white  bandeaus,  of 
course,  for  a  widow.  Take  Mademoiselle  Schwarz 
with  you.  She  will  begin  her  duties  as  a  fitter." 

"Very  well,  Madame." 

When  the  door  was  shut  there  was  a  significant 
interchange  of  whispers  among  the  girls:  "Well, 


REDEMPTION  125 

my  dear,  there's  another  event!  The  first  hand  is 
furious.  No  wonder.  She's  served  the  lady  for 
ten  years.  She  was  counting  on  the  order.  I 
must  say  Mademoiselle  Henriette  Madiot  is 
lucky.  She  looks  pleased  too.  And  the  other,  old 
monkey  face.  What  a  face  she  has  got." 

The  old  " monkey  face"  was  a  worker  of  about 
forty  years  of  age.  She  could  see  that  disgrace 
would  come  upon  her  soon,  and  that  she  would 
lose  her  daily  bread.  She  assumed  an  attitude 
which  she  considered  dignified,  in  order  to  hide 
the  despair  that  was  gnawing  her  soul.  The 
others  laughed  and  failed  to  understand  her  be- 
cause her  sufferings  were  not  sorrows  of  love. 

The  clock  struck.  It  was  a  small  shrill  sound 
deadened  by  tapestry  coverings,  walls  and  cup- 
boards, and  it  seemed  to  come  from  below  ground. 
It  gave  the  signal  for  lunch  time.  All  needles 
were  stuck  into  the  shapes.  Slowly  the  young 
girls  rose,  and  some,  with  the  pose  of  princesses, 
drew  off  the  silken  sleeves  they  put  on  for  work. 
Some  stood  still  for  a  moment,  motionless,  stupe- 
fied by  the  long  mental  strain.  Then  the  passage 
filled  with  noise,  with  footsteps,  the  sound  of 
which  was  deadened  by  the  carpet,  with  rustling 
skirts  and  half-suppressed  youthful  laughter,  and 
Madame  Clemence's  work-girls,  having  washed 
their  hands  in  an  ante-room  near  the  cashier's 
office,  trooped  into  the  long,  badly  lit  dining-room, 
where  the  chief  herself  presided  over  the  morning 
meal.  The  young  girls  sat  down  where  they 
pleased,  with  the  exception  of  the  first  hand  and 
the  housekeeper,  who  sat  one  on  the  right  and  the 


126  REDEMPTION 

other  on  the  left  of  Madame  Cle"mence.  Generally 
Henriette  sat  next  to  Mademoiselle  Augustine. 
But  this  time  Mademoiselle  Augustine  took  care 
to  put  Mademoiselle  Reine  between  herself  and 
her  rival.  This  was  an  open  rupture. 

Henriette  did  not  care.    She  was  thinking  of 
her  visit  to  Madame  Lemarie. 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE  seven  front  windows  on  the  first,  second  and 
third  floors  of  the  Lemarie  mansion  were  closed. 
At  the  door  there  was  a  continual  stream  of 
common  people,  clerks  and  footmen  ringing  the 
bell.  They  pressed  the  electric  button  very 
slightly — out  of  respect  for  the  dead;  the  door 
scarcely  opened — out  of  respect  for  the  dead. 
They  touched  their  hats  with  their  hands,  pre- 
sented a  visiting  card  and  withdrew. 

The  silver  salver  placed  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
staircase  was  hidden  up  to  the  handles  under  a 
mass  of  cards.  Every  quarter  of  an  hour  wreaths 
of  natural  or  artificial  flowers  were  brought  in. 

In  the  yellow  drawing-room  on  the  first  floor 
Madame  Lemarie,  seated  on  a  silk  ottoman,  which 
was  completely  covered  by  her  black  dress,  was 
looking  at  the  door,  through  which  a  moment  ago 
M.  Lecanu,  the  family  solicitor,  had  gone  out. 

There  was  very  little  light  in  the  room.  It  only 
came  in  on  one  side  through  the  chinks  in  the 
shutters,  and  on  the  other  through  the  half-open 
door  where  lay  the  body  of  M.  Lemarie,  with 
his  hands  clasping  a  crucifix,  drawn  and  im- 
perious still.  Two  nuns,  between  two  wax  tapers, 
were  watching  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  They  could 
scarcely  be  seen.  A  streak  of  unbroken  light 
glistened  on  the  polished  floor  and  united  the  two 

127 


128  REDEMPTION 

rooms.  The  room  might  have  been  empty,  but  for 
the  clicking  of  a  rosary,  the  piling  of  one  wreath 
on  another,  and  a  sound  of  judiciously  muffled 
footsteps. 

Madame  Lemarie*  was  reflecting. 

Some  one  came  in.  She  recognized  the  fat  man 
who  was  feeling  his  way  through  the  room  for  fear 
of  knocking  up  against  the  furniture. 

"Is  it  you,  Mourieux?  Have  you  made  the 
declaration?7' 

"Yes,  Madame.  I  await  your  orders  to  join 
Victor  in  doing  what  remains  to  be  done.  Does 
the  will  make  any  arrangements  with  regard  to 
the  funeral?" 

"No,  none." 

The  old  lady  said  nothing,  folded  her  arms  in 
her  lap,  and  looked  at  her  hands,  which  she  spread 
wide,  palms  outward,  with  a  gesture  of  resigna- 
tion that  evidently  corresponded  with  a  thought 
in  her  primitive  mind.  Then  looking  straight  at 
Mourieux  she  said : 

' '  You  see  me  doubly  sad.  It  is  just  as  I  thought : 
we  are  very  rich." 

Mourieux  grunted:  "It's  better  than  being 
poor." 

She  resumed  in  the  same  penetrating  tones: 
' '  Not  always,  Mourieux.  Moreover,  Monsieur  Le- 
canu  tells  me  that  my  husband  has  left  me  all  that 
the  law  allowed  him  to  dispose  of  in  my  favour." 

"Is  it  possible?   To  you?" 

The  bushy  brows  of  the  draper  rose  in  aston- 
ishment. He  added:  "Really,  Madame,  I  am 
surprised,  absolutely  surprised,  and  very  pleased." 


REDEMPTION  129 

"I  was  not  surprised  myself,  Mourieux.  Mon- 
sieur Lemarie  wished  to  guard  against  the  spend- 
thrift nature  of  his  son,  who  has  no  trade.  He  did 
not  love  me,  but  he  esteemed  me." 

"No  doubt." 

"  Perhaps  he  thought  it  was  a  kind  of  compen- 
sation. The  roughest  men  are  sometimes  kind  at 
heart.  In  short,  the  will  is  definite.  I  inherit  an 
enormous  fortune." 

Mourieux  expressed  his  agreement  by  a  gesture. 

She  sighed  and  said:  "It  is  ill-gotten  wealth." 

"Oh,  Madame." 

"I  know  what  I  am  saying,  Mourieux,  and  I 
say  that  it  is  ill-gotten." 

"But  excuse  me,  it  was  gained  by  steady  toil 
requiring  a  good  deal  of  intelligence  and  brain 
work.  Monsieur  Lemarie*  has  gained  his  wealth 
by  honourable  means." 

"It  may  be  so,  my  friend,  according  to- the  light 
current  code  of  honour.  But  I  am  a  witness  to 
his  life,  and,  as  you  know,  that  is  the  only  witness 
that  speaks  true.  I  saw  the  money  that  is  now 
mine  before  it  came,  and  it  pained  me  to  make 
use  of  it.  I  suffered  cruelly,  believe  me.  At  the 
end  of  the  Empire  we  took  stock  of  200,000 
francs'  worth  of  tinned  goods,  ninth-rate  in  qual- 
ity, and  made  for  the  consumption  of  foreign 
sailors.  The  agents  declared  them  to  be  excellent 
because — well,  you  understand,  don't  you?  And 
at  the  same  time,  and  later  on  and  always,  when 
you  were  not  there,  the  workmen  would  come  to  the 
office  in  a  deputation  from  their  comrades;  and 
here  in  this  very  house,  underneath  us,  how  often 


130  REDEMPTION 

have  I  heard  those  scenes?  They  complained  of 
their  wages  being  notoriously  inadequate,  but 
they  did  not  change,  because  we  were  in  possession 
of  what  almost  amounted  to  a  monopoly.  You 
did  not  hear  the  brutal  answers,  nor  the  dismis- 
sals for  the  simple  reason  that  somebody  had 
claimed  some  compensation,  nor  the  speeches 
made  to  the  so-called  employees  who  were  plead- 
ing for  their  comrades  who  had  been  injured  in 
the  work  shops,  to  prove  to  these  unfortunates 
that  the  master  was  not  liable.  These  savings 
represent  our  income.  And  the  moral  misery  that 
one  has  caused  and  permitted,  to  say  nothing  of 
what  one  has  never  known.  Ah!  those  cursed 
factory  walls,  how  often  I  have  wept  as  I  looked 
at  them!  Only  last  night,  when  I  heard  that  they 
were  burning,  my  first  thought  was:  All  the 
better." 

After  a  pause,  during  which  her  panting  breath 
grew  calm,  Madame  Lemarie  resumed  with  her  air 
of  customary  placidness: 

"It  is  useless  for  me  to  insist  on  the  proof. 
Will  you  let  me  off?" 

* '  Yes,"  said  Mourieux,  naively.  ' '  I  have  known 
Lemarie^  well,  you  understand,  and  without  ap- 
proving of  everything." 

"I  do  not  say  this  for  the  pleasure  of  accusing 
him,  my  good  friend,  but  to  acquaint  you  with 
a  resolution.  I  hate  this  wealth.  I  accept  it,  so 
that  it  may  be  well  spent.  I  shall  give  away  as 
much  as  possible  of  it,  that's  all." 

Instinctively  the  man  turned  his  head  toward 
the  other  room,  as  if  the  dead  man  might  possibly 


REDEMPTION  131 

hear  the  words.  The  noise  of  an  artificial  wreath 
being  moved  fell  upon  the  silence  of  the  drawing- 
room,  bearing  witness  that  the  present  hour  be- 
longed to  the  woman  who  had  just  been  speaking. 
Seized  by  a  sudden  feeling  that  he  could  not  but 
translate  into  action,  Mourieux  rose,  stretched 
out  his  hand,  and  said: 

"Honour  me  by  giving  me  your  hand,  Madame 
Lemarie.  What  you  say  may  perhaps  be  exag- 
gerated, but  it's  fine  all  the  same." 

"And  you  will  help  me,  my  dear  Mourieux. 
All  alone  I  should  not  know  how  to  make  use  of  this 
money.  It  is  so  difficult;  I  shall  have  need  of  your 
advice." 

He  remained  standing  beside  her,  full  of  ad- 
miration for  the  woman  who  had  revealed  herself 
to  him. 

"Has  Victor  been  informed?" 

"About  the  will?  Yes,  he  was  there  when  it 
was  read." 

"And  about  the  rest?" 

"I  shall  speak  to  him  at  the  first  opportunity. 
I  shall  do  it  discreetly,  as  one  can  do  to  a  son. 
I  am  sure  he  is  capable  of  understanding.  And 
you,  do  you  remember  what  he  said  before  his 
father  in  the  garden?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  what  he  said,  but " 

"You  doubt  his  word?    He  is  so  fond  of  you." 

"Madame,"  said  the  man,  evading  the  ques- 
tion, "I  am  too  old  to  undertake  anything.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  misery  everywhere  in  the  dress- 
making and  millinery  trade  too.  I  am  well 
acquainted  with  it,  but  you  ought  to  have  some 


132  REDEMPTION 

one  to  help  and  inform  you,  perhaps  one  of  our 
young  girls,  such  as  one  finds,  a  girl  who  is  intelli- 
gent and  refined  and  knows  the  ins  and  outs  of 
her  trade." 

"You  spoke  to  me  some  time  ago  about  Made- 
moiselle Madiot?" 

"  Yes,  that's  true.  There's  a  case  in  point,  if  she 
is  willing." 

"She  will  be  here  in  a  moment,"  said  Madame 
Lemarie,  quietly. 

And  as  Mourieux  made  a  movement  showing 
his  surprise  that,  on  such  a  day,  she  should  first 
of  all  have  thought  of  that,  she  said: 

"Do  not  misunderstand  me.  I  have  not  the 
slightest  intention  of  mentioning  these  subjects 
to  Mademoiselle  Madiot.  No,  it's  quite  another 
matter." 

The  energetic  expression  of  revolt  against  a 
long  and  degrading  past  reappeared  in  her  face: 

"It  is  a  question  of  an  injustice  that  was  done 
to  the  Madiot  family.  It  must  be  made  good 
immediately,  for  they  are  poor.  This  justice  was 
refused  to  me  the  other  day.  And  I  am  in  a  hurry 
to  make  them  forget  what  was  too  hard  in  the  past." 

The  door  opened  and  a  footman  announced: 

"Madame  Clemence  has  sent  to  try  on  the 
bonnets." 

"Very  well.    Ask  them  upstairs." 

When  the  servant  had  gone  she  added:  "I  am 
unhappier  than  others,  my  dear  Mourieux,  be- 
cause I  was  born  for  a  middle-class  position,  and 
here  I  am,  having  to  face  duties  that  are  very 
hard  to  know  and  to  fulfil.  Give  me  your  arm." 


REDEMPTION  133 

She  rose  and  Mourieux  led  her  to  the  end  of  the 
corridor  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  There  he  took 
his  leave.  She  saw  her  old  friend  going  down 
with  his  bent  back  and  his  head  even  more  on  one 
side  than  usual,  while  at  the  same  time  she  saw 
two  slender  forms  coming  up,  standing  out  against 
the  shadows  of  the  hall  and  mirrored  in  rose-pink 
light.  They  were  Henriette  and  Marie.  Marie 
walked  last  and  carried  three  round  boxes. 
Madame  Lemarie  tried  to  guess  which  of  the  two 
was  Henriette  Madiot.  Was  it  the  one  who  was 
picking  up  her  skirts  in  her  right  hand  almost  to 
her  knees,  and  who  was  walking,  seemingly  with- 
out effort,  up  into  the  light?  Their  faces  were 
hidden  by  the  brims  of  their  hats. 

Henriette  entered  the  house  as  a  stranger.  On 
coming  in  her  only  thoughts  had  been:  "How 
beautiful  it  is  here!"  As  far  as  Madame  Lemarie 
was  concerned,  she  felt  and  could  not  but  feel  a 
sympathetic  interest  in  the  face  of  this  working 
girl  whose  ^race,  refinement,  and  intelligence  had 
been  so  highly  praised.  Nevertheless  Madame 
Lemarie's  sympathy  grew  stronger  when  she  saw 
Henriette's  face  gradually  appear.  First  the 
chin,  then  the  white  neck  of  a  fair  girl,  the  dainty 
mouth,  the  small  straight  nose,  and  at  last  the 
eyes,  those  starry  eyes  that  looked  up  and  saw 
her.  The  old  lady  thought:  "How  pretty  she 
is!"  More  especially  she  observed  her  with  an 
intensity  of  feeling  that  life  had  often  called  forth ; 
for  she  had  the  frail  and  wondrous  charm  of  a 
young  girl  whom  happy  mothers  would  be  proud 
to  call  their  own. 


134  REDEMPTION 

This  thought  made  her  turn  away  sharply, 
without  saying  a  word. 

"How  ugly  she  is,"  whispered  Marie.  "Is  this 
the  woman  who  is  so  rich?" 

Following  Madame  Lemarie*,  they  entered  a 
blue  room  that  looked  out  upon  the  court. 

The  windows  were  not  closed. 

"Here  are  the  bonnets  you  have  ordered, 
Madame,"  said  Henriette  to  Madame  Lemarie, 
who  was  standing  facing  the  window.  "Do  you 
wish  the  young  lady  to  try  them  on  before  you 
first?" 

On  receiving  the  scarcely  audible  answer 
"Yes,"  Henriette  lifted  her  veil  and  bent  over 
the  cardboard  boxes  that  her  friend  had  put  on 
the  ground.  Then,  as  she  found  it  difficult  to 
undo  the  string,  she  knelt  down. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  "the  string  is 
in  a  knot." 

"There  is  no  hurry,  Mademoiselle.  Take  your 
own  time.  I  am  not  a  great  lady." 

"We  have  brought  three  models,  Madame, 
which  only  differ  in  the  thickness  of  the  niching. 
This  is  the  simplest  of  them.  Please  stand  in  the 
light,  Mademoiselle  Marie,  and  smooth  your  hair 
down." 

With  an  easy  movement  the  girl  rose,  holding 
between  two  fingers  a  black  crape  bonnet  lined 
with  a  bandeau  of  white  crape.  She  placed  it  on 
the  head  of  the  fitter  with  perfect  ease,  not  too 
much  in  front  nor  too  far  back,  drew  a  few  of  the 
girl's  black  locks  down  on  to  the  forehead  in 
imitation  of  an  old  lady's  way  of  doing  her  hair, 


REDEMPTION  135 

fastened  the  whole  with  a  hat  pin,  and  then 
asked: 

" Is  that  to  your  taste?" 

She  observed  that  Madame  Lemarie*  was  not 
paying  the  least  attention  to  the  bonnet,  but  on 
the  other  hand  did  not  once  take  her  eyes  off 
Madame  Clemence's  milliner,  who  was  usually 
ignored  by  most  customers  on  a  similar  occasion. 
Henriette  was  surprised.  She  was  being  taken 
notice  of.  She  was  receiving  a  kind  of  admiration 
that  made  her  smile.  And  in  that  smile  there  was 
all  the  gratitude  of  youth  that  has  been  approved. 
But  she  quickly  repressed  this  show  of  personal 
feeling,  which  was  out  of  place. 

1 '  Do  you  wish  us  to  try  on  a  second  model?  "  she 
inquired. 

"You  are  quite  young,  Mademoiselle.  How 
old  are  you?" 

"I  am  twenty-four,  Madame." 

"Have  you  been  at  work  long?" 

"Certainly,  Madame,  ever  since  I  was  a  child." 

"And  you  are  fond  of  your  trade,  I  am  sure? 
You  seem  to  be  very  skilful.  And  I  suppose  the 
shop  for  which  you  work  gives  you  employment 
all  the  year  round?  There  is  no  slack  season?" 

Henriette,  like  all  the  other  young  women  in 
millinery  work,  had  a  kind  of  professional  pride, 
which  prevented  her  from  complaining.  More- 
over, the  idea  of  her  own  working  class  was  so 
deeply  ingrained  in  her,  that  she  was  instinctively 
on  her  guard  against  the  pity  and  curiosity  of  an- 
other class.  She  replied  coldly: 

' '  No,  Madame,  not  for  me.   I  want  for  nothing." 


136  REDEMPTION 

The  lines  that  furrowed  Madame  Lemarie*'s 
cheeks  seemed  to  deepen.  With  a  look  of  heart- 
felt kindness  which  required  a  very  strong  feeling 
to  make  it  change,  she  looked  at  the  two  young 
girls.  The  one  was  upright,  elegant,  almost 
haughty  in  her  manner,  the  other  evidently  indif- 
ferent, and  forming  such  a  strange  figure  in  her 
crape  bonnet.  Then  without  being  angry,  she  said : 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  am  glad  that  you  want  for 
nothing.  I  want  for  many  things,  and  the  chief 
of  them  is  this :  There  was  some  difficulty  between 
your  uncle  and  Monsieur  Lemarie".  Is  that  not 
the  case?" 

"Yes,  Madame;  but  it  has  all  been  settled, 
I  believe." 

"Yes,  but  not  according  to  my  wishes.  Will 
you  please  tell  your  uncle  that,  as  a  very  old 
worker  of  the  firm,  he  will  receive  a  pension  of 
five  hundred  francs  a  year?" 

Henriette  was  taken  aback  for  a  moment. 
She  grew  scarlet,  and  the  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

"Ah,  Madame,  how  happy  he  will  be.  How  I 
thank  you  on  his  behalf.  He  no  longer  reckoned 
on  it.  I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  you." 

She  hesitated  before  taking  the  outstretched 
hand  of  Madame  Lemarie',  for  she  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  such  familiarities  on  the  part  of  the 
customers  whom  she  visited,  and  she  felt  all  at 
once  confused,  happy  and  yet  embarrassed,  when 
just  at  this  moment  a  shadow  lengthened  on  the 
parquet  flooring  at  her  feet.  It  was  Victor 
Lemarie"  coming  in  at  the  door  that  opened  on  to 
the  corridor.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  packet  of 


REDEMPTION  137 

funeral  invitation  cards  in  black-bordered  en- 
velopes. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  seeing  Henri- 
ette  and  Marie. 

"Oh,  is  it  you,  my  child,"  said  Madame  Le- 
marie,  who  had  heard  without  seeing  him  come. 
"I  shall  be  ready  in  a  moment.  I  have  just 
chosen  a  bonnet." 

She  went  up  to  Marie:  "Let  me  have  this  one. 
It  will  do  quite  well  enough." 

In  a  moment  and  with  a  gesture  of  deliverance, 
Marie  removed  the  bonnet  and  placed  it  on  the 
marble  top  of  a  chest  of  drawers.  Then  she 
hastened  to  collect  her  two  boxes  that  were  still 
full.  Henriette  bowed,  gazing  steadfastly  at  the 
old  lady  with  a  softened  glance  which  said: 
Thank  you,  for  him  and  for  me. 

The  two  young  girls  left  the  room.  When  Hen- 
riette passed  through  the  corridor  quite  near  the 
door,  Victor  Lemarie,  who  was  standing  close  up 
against  the  wall,  bent  his  pointed  beard  and  said: 

"Good-day,  Mademoiselle  Madiot." 

The  voice  rang  out,  clear,  youthful,  unan- 
swered, in  strange  contrast  to  the  muffled  sound 
of  prayer  from  the  nuns  in  the  room  below. 

"I  came  to  write  some  addresses,"  said  Victor 
on  entering  his  mother's  room.  "You  are  not  too 
tired,  are  you?" 

With  a  sign  she  answered  in  the  negative,  and 
pointed  to  the  little  table  at  which  both  could 
write  side  by  side. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE  invitation  cards  were  printed  on  thick  paper 
with  a  Cross  above.  What  had  the  Cross  to  do 
with  the  life  that  was  no  more?  They  bore  the 
words:  "He  died  fortified  with  all  the  rites  of  the 
Church."  It  was  a  lie,  for  the  deceased  had  never 
troubled  about  them.  They  bore  the  words: 
"Of  your  charity  say  a  De  profundis  for  his  soul." 
Who  would  there  be  to  say  it? 

Madame  Lemarie  sighed,  and  put  back  in  the 
envelope  the  first  of  the  cards  which  she  had  un- 
folded. With  her  studied,  neat,  and  angular 
writing  she  penned  one  address,  then  another, 
then  a  third,  in  silence.  Victor  was  doing  the 
same.  They  were  studying  an  open  note-book 
that  lay  between  them. 

"Of  course  we  will  only  send  them  to  people 
who  live  at  a  distance.  The  undertakers  see  after 
the  rest.  Mourieux  has  told  them  about  it.  He 
said  all  the  town  was  to  be  invited." 

"Yes." 

"Baron  d'Espelette,  Commander  of  the  Six- 
teenth Division.  Are  you  sure  that  there  is  not 
an  V  at  the  end  of  his  name?  No?  All  right. 
The  General  may  be  of  use  to  me  when  I  become 
an  officer  of  the  Reserve  next  January." 

This  half  question  produced  no  answer  but  the 

138 


REDEMPTION  139 

scratching  of  the  other  pen,  which  was  writing: 
"M.  Le  Mansart,  Conseiller  General." 

"Are  you  going  to  ask  Le  Mansart?" 

"It  looks  like  it." 

"He  was  opposed  to  my  father.  My  father 
hated  him." 

She  looked  at  her  son  reproachfully,  and  said 
as  she  resumed  her  writing: 

"My  poor  child,  I  wish  I  were  able  to  ask  all 
your  father's  enemies,  and  obtain  their  forgive- 
ness at  so  small  a  cost.  Human  life  touches  so 
many  other  lives,  especially  the  life  of  an  in- 
dustrial magnate.  Sometimes  one  does  wrong 
without  wishing  it,  one  tramples  others  under 
foot." 

"At  that  rate,  Mother,  you  would  have  to  ask 
the  discharged  workmen,  all  who  were  dismissed 
when  the  machines  came  in,  all  the  widows  who 
have  not  been  pensioned." 

Madame  Lemarie  put  her  pen  on  the  side  of  the 
glass  inkstand,  and  said,  looking  straight  in  front 
of  her: 

"If  all  those  widows  would  only  recite  a  single 
'Ave'  for  your  father." 

"Ah!  well,  they  don't  know  any  better." 

"I  would  gladly  give  part  of  my  fortune  to  ob- 
tain it.  The  souls  of  the  departed  are  so  clogged 
and  weighted  down  if  they  are  not  winged  by 
prayer.  Victor,  I  am  at  least  happy  in  knowing 
that  you  do  not  differ  from  me  as  regards  our 
workers.  You  see,  I  look  upon  them — I  have  had 
this  idea  all  my  life — somehow  as  partners  in  the 
business,  though  they  have  no  contracts.  Your 


140  REDEMPTION 

father  did  not  see  it  in  this  light,  and  he  has  left 
both  of  us  a  pile  of  charity  debts  to  pay  ofif.  .  .  . " 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and,  as  there  was  no 
answer  forthcoming,  she  continued: 

"I  shall  have  no  greater  pleasure  than  the  dis- 
charging of  those  debts.  And  what  about  you? 
I  am  sure  you  have  thought  about  it,  you  who 
have  so  much  heart.  'To  give.'  What  a  beautiful 
word  it  is!" 

"Dear  me,  no,  I  have  not." 

"But  you  will  not  refuse  to  help  me,  will  you, 
in  the  good  that  I  wish  to  do?" 

"Of  course  not,  if  you  do  it  reasonably." 

Lovingly,  and  in  a  voice  of  half-fulfilled  en- 
treaty the  mother  asked: 

"Come,  Victor,  just  tell  me  what  you  mean  by 
'  reasonably. ": 

"Well — "  and  he  reflected  for  a  moment. 
"Well,  take  the  Madiot  family  as  an  instance.  I 
admit  that  in  view  of  the  uncle's  long  services  he 
might  be  awarded  a  small  pension." 

"Very  good,  my  dear,  that  has  already  been 
done." 

"How  so?" 

"If  you  had  only  seen  the  surprise  and  delight 
of  the  young  girl  just  now!  Really  her  gratitude 
was  greater  than  the  gift.  It  was  naive,  it  was ' ' 

"Pardon,  but  how  much  did  you  give?" 

"Five  hundred  francs  per  annum." 

"There,  that  is  how  you  go  on!  That  is  not 
reasonable,  to  begin  with." 

The  mother  answered  gently,  in  order  not  to 
hurt  his  feelings: 


REDEMPTION  141 

"Thirty  years  of  service,  Victor,  think  of  it. 
I  was  blaming  myself  for  not  having  been  suffi- 
ciently generous.  You  must  understand  that 
these  are  necessary  charities,  almost  amounting 
to  obligatory  debts.  With  a  fortune  like  ours,  do 
you  know  what  my  cherished  dream  is?" 

The  young  man  knitted  his  brows,  twisted  his 
pen  between  his  fingers,  and  gazed  fixedly  at  the 
inkstand. 

"My  dream  would  be  to  endow  one  or  two  great 
charities  intended  to  help  factory  workers  and 
artisans.  I  have  not  yet  thought  out  which  they 
are  to  be,  although  I  have  some  ideas  in  the 
matter.  We  will  think  about  it  together,  together 
we  will  plan  and  scheme,  and  give  a  great  repu- 
tation to  the  name  of  Lemarie",  which  has  been 
cursed  by  many.  In  short,  I  wish  to  see  us  less 
wealthy  and  more  beloved,  my  child.  Do  you 
understand?" 

Without  taking  his  eyes  off  the  inkstand,  he 
answered  with  the  air  of  superiority  which  men 
so  easily  assume  in  questions  of  money: 

"Mother,  I  propose  that  we  go  on  with  the  ad- 
dresses. It  is  three  o'clock  already,  and  the  post 
will  not  wait." 

She  felt  a  pang  of  grief.  But  she  did  not  give 
way.  There  was  the  future,  all  the  future  to  safe- 
guard. She  said  sadly: 

"Then,  why  did  you  speak  to  your  father  like 
that?  My  dear,  I  fail  to  understand." 

He  raised  his  hands  with  an  aggrieved  gesture: 

"But  I  do  think  just  the  same  all  the  time. 
Only  we  should  be  fools,  really,  to  ruin  ourselves 


142  REDEMPTION 

in  order  to  change  matters  which  are  the  result  of 
a  certain  social  state.  Education  ought  to  be 
altered,  minds  should  be  altered — everything 
else." 

This  time  his  words  fell  unanswered.  Madame 
Lemarie"  had  begun  to  write  again,  and  was  bend- 
ing over  the  black-bordered  envelopes.  She  had 
formed  her  opinion  of  her  son:  he  was  much  more 
like  his  father  than  she  had  believed.  With  him, 
too,  she  would  have  to  be  silent.  Victor  saw  her 
wipe  away  a  tear  more  than  once  during  the  silent 
hour  they  spent  together. 

Wreaths  were  continually  being  carried  up  the 
back  stairs. 


As  for  old  Madiot,  he  was  jubilant  that  evening. 
Five  hundred  francs  seemed  to  him  a  fortune. 
He  never  stopped  thanking  Henriette,  though  she 
disclaimed  all  merit,  and  kept  on  saying:  "And 
now  that's  done,  dearie,  don't  go  too  often  into 
the  houses  of  the  rich." 
"But  what  am  I  to  do  if  I  am  sent  there?" 
He  found  no  answer,  at  least  no  good  one.  But 
was  beside  himself  with  joy.  He  was  so  pleased 
that  his  niece  allowed  him — for  it  was  she  who 
gave  permission  now — to  go  round  to  three  or 
four  of  his  old  friends,  men  who  had  Mexican  or 
Crimean  medals,  and  whom  he  only  remembered 
on  very  great  occasions. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE  following  morning,  when  she  was  doing  her 
hair,  Henriette  realized  that  she  was  pretty. 

She  went  out  into  the  sunshine  all  alone. 

The  lilac  is  in  bloom,  oh,  well  beloved.  Do  you 
not  breathe  its  perfume?  No,  not  the  lilac,  its 
season  is  over,  its  perfume  will  not  return.  Then 
it  must  be  the  rock  roses  with  their  golden  clus- 
ters hanging  bellwise  in  the  traceried  belfry  of  the 
leaves.  But  the  perfume  of  the  rock  roses  rises  to 
the  head  like  wine  and  breeds  troublous  thoughts. 
What  is  the  matter?  In  your  dreams  you  saw 
three  sprigs  of  gorse,  and  you  say:  It  is  not  that. 
The  grass  is  cut.  The  wind  is  lulled  to  rest.  Oh, 
well  beloved,  the  perfume  of  your  hair  is  like  a 
field  of  marguerites.  They  are  in  flower.  A  per- 
fume rises  from  you.  Go  forth,  breathe,  smile, 
drink  of  life  to  the  full.  You  will  turn  men's 
heads.  Your  lovers  will  tell  you  so. 

The  pretty  girl  went  to  the  work  shop.  She 
made  hats  that  her  employer  sold.  The  day  did 
not  belong  to  her  any  more  than  it  belonged  to 
any  of  the  others.  Still,  when  she  was  in  the 
street  she  felt  like  a  little  queen. 


143 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


Two  days  later,  early  in  the  morning,  when  the 
mists  were  rising  from  the  waters  like  clouds  of 
fine  white  shavings,  a  flat  boat  left  the  field  at 
Mauves  and  crossed  the  Loire.  A  man  was  punt- 
ing it  across;  his  moustache  was  wet  with  mist, 
and  the  joy  of  life  shone  in  his  eyes.  His  two 
hands  pressed  upon  the  pole,  the  iron  point  of 
which  stirred  the  sand  at  the  bottom  of  the  river. 
Supple  of  limb  and  shivering  beneath  his  blue 
jersey,  he  steered  the  boat  slantwise  toward  the 
farther  shore,  where  are  two  small  islands. 
They  are  called  Heron  and  Pinette,  and  are  sepa- 
rated from  each  other  and  from  the  mainland  by 
narrow  branches  of  the  river. 

A  wondrous  silence  surrounded  him.  There 
was  hardly  even  the  cry  of  the  snipe  on  the  wing 
or  beginning  to  feed  on  the  wet  grass.  The  flood 
was  over.  The  blue  water,  streaked  darker  here 
and  there,  did  not  yet  shine  clearly,  except  per- 
haps near  the  sandbanks,  where  it  grew  into  a 
slender  stream  that  curved  like  the  blade  of  a 
scythe. 

The  boatman  was  thinking:  "I  love  her  too 
much,  I  must  tell  her  so."  And  the  boat  glided 
on.  And  the  daylight  round  him  grew  more  and 
more  radiant. 

He  entered  a  narrow  channel  where  the  current 

144 


REDEMPTION  145 

was  almost  still.  In  the  shelter  of  the  islands,  in 
the  swamp,  reeds  grew,  tall  and  green  or  broken 
and  resting  their  yellow  blades  upon  the  waters 
of  the  Loire.  Nets  were  stretched  across  the  water 
in  the  direction  of  the  current.  For  half  an  hour 
Etienne  worked  steadily,  lifting  with  his  iron 
hook  the  wicker  traps  in  which  the  eels  were 
caught,  pulling  out  the  bunches  of  grass  that 
were  caught  with  them,  emptying  the  fish  into 
the  forepart  of  the  boat  that  was  reserved  for 
them  and  throwing  the  trap  overboard  again. 
The  fishing  was  good  this  morning.  Etienne  also 
went  all  along  the  bank  of  the  Isle  of  Heron  and 
then,  turning  into  the  Pirmil  branch  of  the  river, 
which  is  an  ampler  and  quivering  sheet  of  water, 
with  the  mainland  on  the  left  and  farms  and  the 
town  of  St.  Sebastien  hidden  in  the  mist  that  was 
slowly  giving  way,  he  stood  up,  allowed  his  pole 
to  drag  along  in  the  water,  raised  his  head  and 
shouted  with  all  his  might  like  a  trumpeter. 

"Ohe",  de  la  Gibraye,  oheV' 

A  similar  but  muffled  cry  answered  him  from 
the  bank.  The  Gibraye  folk  had  heard  him. 
They  knew  that  the  fisherman  from  Mauves  was 
passing  by.  In  a  moment  the  whole  forepart  of 
the  boat  was  filled  with  baskets.  Cabbages,  leeks 
and  turnips  were  overflowing  on  either  side  and 
hanging  down  into  the  river.  Bunches  of  carrots 
towered  above,  as  well  as  lettuces  and  sorrel,  and 
three  bundles  of  cress  which  Etienne  piled  up  to 
form  the  pinnacle  of  his  green  castle.  He  was  up 
to  the  eyes  in  green  now.  Seated  at  the  back  he 
pushed  off  with  three  strokes  of  his  pole,  took  to 


146  REDEMPTION 

the  open  stream  and  let  himself  drift  with  the 
current. 

The  river  Loire  was  awakening.  Salmon  fish- 
ing boats  passed  to  and  fro  and  the  surface  of  the 
river  gleamed  beneath  them,  one  mass  of  pale 
gold.  The  vast  outline  of  the  town  was  piercing 
the  quivering  and  brooding  mists  in  twenty 
places  at  once. 

And  Etienne,  with  beating  heart  and  lips  that 
trembled  to  say  words  he  would  never  dare  to 
utter,  waited  for  the  moment  when  he  would  be 
clear  of  the  mists,  masts,  and  poplar  tops  of  the 
Isle  of  Saint  Anne  and  at  the  entrance  to  the 
Grand  Loire  a  little  house  would  appear,  high  and 
white  like  a  light-house. 

At  the  window  of  her  room  Henriette  was  just 
fastening  her  every-day  dress.  She  wanted  to  see 
him,  and  yet  she  did  not  wish  to  count  on  it.  At 
what  time  would  the  boat  pass?  Etienne  had 
not  said.  The  young  girl  was  thinking:  "I  have 
only  such  a  short  time  to  wait  here  for  him." 

Her  eyes  passed  all  along  the  landscape  from 
the  Prairie  au  Due  as  far  as  Trentemoult.  And  all 
at  once  in  the  full  current  of  the  Loire  and  turning 
the  point  of  Saint  Anne's  Isle,  she  saw  the  boat, 
the  three  bundles  of  cress,  the  green  baskets,  and 
the  big  Etienne,  who  was  standing  up. 

He  was  no  longer  punting.  He  had  let  the  pole 
drop,  and  was  slowly  drifting  along  the  still  de- 
serted river  with  his  head  turned  toward  the  white 
house.  Henriette  was  standing  right  at  the  open 
window.  He  saw  her.  He  got  up  on  to  the  back 


REDEMPTION  147 

seat  and  threw  two  kisses  across  to  her  with  both 
his  hands. 

Henriette  blushed. 

"Well,  how  daring  Etienne  is  getting." 

She  drew  back.  But  she  came  back  a  moment 
later.  With  a  thrust  of  his  pole  Etienne  had 
turned  his  boat,  and  it  was  already  lost  among  the 
pleasure  yachts  and  canoes  of  the  little  harbour  of 
Trentemoult. 

The  young  girl  finished  putting  her  room 
straight. 

She  laughed  as  she  thought  of  Etienne,  and 
made  up  her  mind  to  scold  him.  A  slight  blush 
still  remained  on  her  cheeks. 

When  she  passed  through  the  kitchen  to  go  to 
work,  old  Madiot  remarked:  " What's  up  with 
you  this  morning,  youngster?  You  look  as  wide 
awake  as  a  whitebait." 

In  truth  she  found  it  hard  to  assume  her  every- 
day expression  of  cold,  calm  contempt  for  passing 
glances  in  the  street.  She  went  down  the  stairs, 
closed  the  door  after  her,  and  straight  in  front  of 
her,  leaning  against  one  of  the  acacia  trees  that 
had  been  planted  in  the  strong  soil,  she  saw  big 
Etienne. 

Her  heart  beat  violently.  She  was  pleased  and 
vexed  at  the  same  time.  Etienne  came  toward 
her  with  a  half-smiling  and  half-worried  expression 
on  his  face. 

He  had  put  a  black  vest  over  his  jersey,  and  his 
Sunday  felt  hat  covered  his  great  fair-haired  head. 

"I  was  hoping  you  would  come,"  he  said. 

Henriette  gave  him  her  hand  almost  timidly. 


148  REDEMPTION 

The  houses  on  the  Ermitage  Hill  lined  the  slope 
all  the  way  down.  Each  house  had  a  crowd  of 
children  playing  on  the  doorstep  and  a  woman  at 
its  window. 

"Is  there  a  chance  for  a  talk?"  asked  Etienne. 

"If  you  care  to  go  with  me  as  far  as  the  Fosse," 
Henriette  replied,  "we  can  talk  on  the  way." 

But  they  both  kept  silent  for  several  minutes. 
He  was  looking  at  the  shipyards  with  their  mass 
of  shipping,  behind  which  the  sun  was  rising. 
She  was  looking  at  the  familiar  sequence  of  low 
doors,  stairs  and  windows,  from  which  came: 
"Good-morning,  Mademoiselle  Henriette."  "Good- 
morning,  Madame  Vivien,"  replied  Henriette. 
"Good-morning,  Madame  Esnault.  Good-morn- 
ing, Marcelle." 

But  the  Mise~ri  Hill  ended  at  the  beginning  of  the 
quay.  They  were  soon  surrounded  by  groups  of 
workers  and  harbour  loiterers,  unknown  passers- 
by,  a  nameless  crowd  that  gave  the  two  young 
people  an  impression  of  solitude.  Etienne  grew 
bolder  by  degrees,  and  began  to  take  a  stealthy 
glance  at  the  rosy  face  of  the  young  girl  who  was 
trotting  along  by  his  side.  By  mutual  though 
unspoken  agreement  they  avoided  a  group  of 
lightermen  who  were  unloading  a  cargo  of  corn, 
and  went  on  along  the  Loire,  until  at  last  they 
found  a  great  pile  of  sacks  of  plaster  all  piled  up, 
which  seemed  to  them  a  favourable  spot.  They 
stopped.  And  there,  in  the  half-awakened  city, 
two  lovers  stood  very  close  together,  and  spoke 
very  softly  without  gestures,  so  that  they  should 
not  attract  attention. 


REDEMPTION  149 

"I  could  not  go  on  like  this  any  longer/'  said 
Etienne. 

''Then  what  did  you  want  to  tell  me?"  asked 
Henriette. 

He  waited  suspiciously  until  a  custom-house 
official  had  passed  on. 

"Mademoiselle  Henriette,  this  cannot  go  on 
forever.  I  cannot  go  on  caring  for  you  without 
telling  you  of  it." 

He  saw  the  young  girl  draw  back  slightly,  while 
she  grew  pale  with  the  sudden  shock,  and  sup- 
ported herself  against  the  pile  of  sacks. 

"Don't  go  away.  Listen.  My  father  thinks  I 
have  undertaken  to  carry  vegetables  to  Trente- 
moult  in  order  to  earn  more  money.  No  doubt: 
but  most  of  all  because  I  wanted  to  see  you. 
Every  day  that  God  has  given  for  the  last  three 
months  I  have  been  looking  for  you." 

He  wanted  to  add  something,  but  he  could  not 
go  on.  A  sob  of  youthful  anguish — for  youth  is 
as  prone  to  despair  as  it  is  to  love — was  choking 
him.  But  he  bore  up  against  it.  He  had  nothing 
more  to  say,  and  in  his  feeling  of  shame  he  hung 
his  head. 

Then  he  felt  two  small  gloved  hands  take  his 
own,  and  he  heard  a  voice,  that  was  troubled  too, 
say: 

"Is  it  really  serious  then,  my  poor  Etienne. 
You  see  I  am  upset  about  it.  I  had  no  idea  of 
what  you  were  going  to  say  to  me.  No,  I  knew 
quite  well  that  we  were  friends — good  friends, 
since  we  were  children.  And  I  was  pleased.  And 
when  you  paid  me  little  attentions  I  thought: 

I 


150  REDEMPTION 

'It's  all  right,  let  him  do  it.  He  is  a  grown-up 
friend  now.'  But  now,  I  should  like  to  cry.  Oh, 
you  ought  not  to  have  told  me.  I  liked  you  so 
much  as  you  were." 

Etienne  raised  his  head.  His  pride  hardened 
his  face  and  voice. 

"So  you  won't  have  me,  Mademoiselle  Henri- 
ette?  I  am  not  a  good  enough  catch  for  you?" 

She,  in  turn,  looked  at  him,  while  tears  of  ab- 
solute sincerity  shone  in  her  eyes. 

"No,  it  is  not  that.  Do  not  add  to  my  sorrow, 
I  entreat  you.  I  am  speaking  to  you  from  my 
heart.  Look  at  me.  I  do  not  despise  you.  I  love 
no  one  as  much  as  I  do  you,  Etienne,  but  I  can- 
not answer  you.  I  have  not  thought  it  over. 
The  thought  is  too  strange  to  me.  Give  me 
time." 

"How  long?" 

"I  don't  know.  My  brother  is  leaving  for  his 
regiment,  and  I  must  earn  money  for  him.  If  he 
has  nothing,  you  understand,  he  won't  get  accus- 
tomed to  it.  And  then,  I  shall  know  my  fate 
before  the  end  of  the  year — whether  I  shall  be 
first  hand  or  not  in  our  millinery  business.  All 
my  future  is  in  that.  Wait  till  I  know,  so  that  I 
can  come  to  my  decision  knowing  what  I  am 
about." 

She  tried  to  smile  at  him. 

"We  shall  meet  again,  Etienne.  Don't  be 
wretched  about  it.  It  is  half-past  eight.  I  am 
late." 

She  turned  away  quickly  and  went  off,  a  fair 
vision  of  the  early  morn.  But  in  Etienne's  eyes 


REDEMPTION  151 

she  left  the  image  of  her  own,  which  were  like 
those  of  a  very  kind  and  tender  sister.  For  a 
long  time  he  stood  motionless,  looking  first  at  the 
quay  and  then  at  the  street  where  the  slender 
black  form  of  the  young  girl  diminished  and  dis- 
appeared, and  still  Henriette's  eyes,  which  he 
could  no  longer  see,  were  in  his  heart. 

In  the  evening,  after  a  day  during  which  the 
events  of  the  morning,  and  others  as  well  which 
affected  her,  had  been  continually  in  her  mind, 
Henriette  came  home.  She  was  tired  out,  indif- 
ferent to  the  extreme  sweetness  of  the  June  even- 
ing, which  was  drawing  even  the  sick  out  into  its 
light  and  beauty.  Even  young  mothers  who  were 
too  weak  to  get  up,  might  be  seen  raising  their 
towselled  heads  from  off  their  pillows  to  a  level 
with  the  window-sill  here  and  there  in  the  poorer 
quarters.  She  could  not  think  any  more.  She 
forgot  to  listen  to  the  children's  voices  that  gave 
her  greeting.  And  the  little  ones,  who  vaguely 
guess  at  grown-up  states  of  mind  when  familiar 
faces  do  not  turn  to  them  and  smile  at  them  any 
more,  were  silent  and  a  second  later  resumed  their 
play.  Henriette  even  forgot  to  lift  her  dress,  and 
the  hem  of  her  skirt  was  white  with  the  dust  from 
the  slope. 

But  as  she  passed  the  entrance  to  the  court 
where  the  Herves  lived,  she  saw  a  child  of  ten  be- 
side the  staircase,  a  crippled  child  stretched  on  a 
little  white  wood  cart  with  solid  wheels.  For  the 
last  three  years  Marcelle  had  never  risen.  She 
lived  almost  motionless,  with  her  head  facing  the 


152  REDEMPTION 

sky,  obliged  to  make  an  effort  with  her  weak  eyes 
if  she  wished  to  observe  anything  even  on  a  level 
with  the  road.  She  was  wheeled  from  one  shady 
place  to  another,  following  the  shifting  shadows 
of  the  gables  or  acacia  trees.  She  possessed  the 
calm  of  those  who  have  no  firm  hold  on  life.  As 
Henriette  was  passing,  absorbed  in  thought,  she 
heard  a  beseeching  voice  from  below,  saying: 

"  Mademoiselle!" 

Just  below  her  on  the  right  she  saw  the  little 
cart  with  its  tattered  mattress,  and  the  white  face 
framed  by  hair  that  had  no  strength  to  grow. 
She  bent  down  to  stroke  Marcelle's  little  face 
with  her  hand  as  she  often  did.  But  the  child's 
cheek  was  quite  wet  with  tears,  and  there  was  so 
much  sadness  in  her  gaze  that  Henriette  asked: 

"What  is  the  matter,  Marcelle?  Are  you  in 
pain?" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"Has  some  one  hurt  you?" 

The  sick  child  murmured:  "Come  quite  close, 
and  let  me  tell  you." 

And  when  the  young  girl,  bending  over  the 
bed  of  suffering,  seemed  to  form  a  single  though 
indistinct  group  with  the  sufferer,  while  the  ma- 
trons with  their  knitting  looked  on  from  afar,  the 
tiny  voice  resumed : 

"Mademoiselle  Henriette,  please  don't  get 
married.  Don't  go  away  from  these  parts,  or  I 
shan't  see  you  again." 

"My  poor  darling,  where  have  you  got  that 
idea  from?"  said  Henriette,  straightening  herself 
and  stroking  the  child's  pale  face.  "You  are  fool- 


REDEMPTION  153 

ish.     I  am  not  going  to  get  married,  so  don't 
worry." 

She  went  away  even  more  upset.  She  remem- 
bered that  in  the  morning  when  she  passed  down 
the  slope  with  Etienne  the  cart  had  been  already 
outside,  sheltered  by  an  angle  of  the  court. 

What  a  day  of  varying  emotions.  Sleep  would 
be  a  long  time  coming  to  her  that  night.  She 
never  touched  the  supper  that  Uncle  Madiot  had 
prepared,  and,  pretending  to  have  a  headache, 
retired  to  her  room  and  opened  the  gray-bound 
note-book  which  she  had  left  unused  for  months, 
but  in  which  she  had  written  down  her  vague 
girlish  thoughts,  which  come  at  a  time  when  the 
soul  is  awakening,  and  one  seems  to  have  too  few 
friends  to  be  able  to  tell  them  all,  although  there 
is  nothing  to  be  said  except  that  one  longs  to  love. 

She  wrote  as  follows: 

"I  have  no  one  to  whom  I  can  confide  my 
trouble,  no  one  to  calm  me  or  advise  me.  It  is 
a  strange  thing  that  people  come  to  me  as  if  I 
were  strong.  The  other  day  Irma  said:  'Oh,  you 
don't  know  what  it's  like,'  just  as  if  I  belonged  to 
a  different  race.  Alas,  it  is  not  so.  I  belong  to 
the  race  of  those  who  love,  who  get  attached  to  a 
thousand  things  and  many  people  round  about 
them,  until  they  gather  up  their  love  and  bestow 
it  on  him  who  is  worthy  of  it.  It  makes  me  suffer, 
and  yet  it  protects  me.  My  weakness  is  every- 
where evident,  alas;  in  the  ease  with  which  my 
tears  flow,  in  my  anxiety  about  a  severed  tie  of 
friendship,  in  my  very  thoughts.  But  as  I  am  an 


154  REDEMPTION 

honest  girl,  my  companions  think  that  I  have  the 
secret  of  protecting  others.  How  mistaken  they 
are. 

"This  very  morning  after  my  meeting  with 
Etienne,  which  upset  me,  I  ran  to  the  work  shop. 
Irma,  seeing  that  my  cheeks  were  red,  said  to 
me:  'So  it's  your  turn  now?'  I  had  to  keep  back 
my  tears,  and  to  keep  back  my  heart  that  was 
weeping  within  me,  and  to  keep  back  my  thoughts 
from  these  young  girls  whom  very  soon  I  may  be 
at  the  head  of.  I  was  ashamed  of  myself;  those 
who  are  in  the  habit  of  giving  way  to  their  woes 
were  pleased  to  look  at  me.  Luckily  Madame 
Cle*mence  did  not  come  in.  I  felt  no  inclination 
or  taste  for  my  trade.  When  we  rose  at  ten 
o'clock  to  go  to  Mademoiselle  du  Muel's  wedding, 
Mademoiselle  Augustine,  Irma,  Mathilde  and  I, 
poor  Marie  Schwarz,  whom  I  had  obtained  per- 
mission to  take  with  me,  came  up  to  me  on  the 
stairs  and  asked:  'Are  you  suffering  too?  Is  it 
because  of  me?  Do  they  want  to  send  me  away?' 
I  reassured  her.  She  has  suffered  so  much  that 
she  is  ready  to  believe  that  she  is  the  cause  of  all 
the  misery  in  the  world. 

"Half  an  hour  afterward  we  were  at  the 
Church  of  Sainte-Croix,  right  at  the  end  of  the 
nave,  where  the  crowd  does  not  behave  very  well, 
and  the  maids  of  honour  do  not  collect  for  the 
poor. 

"I  recognized  Madame  Louise's  workgirls,  and 
the  employees  of  a  certain  draper's  shop  which 
has  opened  a  millinery  department.  The  church 
was  splendid:  carpets,  flowers,  velvet  seats,  and 


REDEMPTION  155 

then  a  procession  of  real  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
not  only  rich  people,  but  people  who  know  how 
to  carry  off  a  dress  or  to  take  a  woman's  arm.  I 
enjoyed  it  in  spite  of  myself.  Ever  since  I  left  the 
convent  school  my  mind  has  been  given  to  the 
elegancies  of  fashion;  my  fingers  are  at  work  on 
them  every  day.  I  remember  the  form  of  a  knot 
of  ribbon,  or  the  colour  of  a  cluster  of  flowers,  as 
others  remember  a  fine  expression  they  have 
read.  Mademoiselle  du  Muel  walked  up  the 
centre  aisle  on  her  father's  arm.  We  were  stand- 
ing, some  of  us  on  chairs.  We  felt  curious  and 
moved  at  the  sight,  and  slightly  envious  because 
we  are  women.  Then  Marie,  who  was  close  be- 
side me,  stopped  watching  the  procession.  I  no- 
ticed that  while  the  rest  of  us  were  turning  our 
heads  with  the  same  movement,  as  the  groups  of 
guests  passed  on  in  turn,  she  was  bending  slowly 
backward,  as  if  to  listen  to  some  one.  The  cape 
of  her  black  coat,  which  she  always  wears,  poor 
girl,  was  touching  the  back  of  the  chairs,  although 
we  were  standing  on  the  seat.  I  looked  back. 
What  a  bad  and  painful  thought  struck  me.  It 
was  my  brother  Antoine  who  was  speaking  to  her. 
"I  said  nothing  to  Marie.  I  asked  Antoine, 
'What  are  you  doing  here?  Why  haven't  you 
spoken  to  me?'  He  replied  that  he  was  waiting 
for  me  to  be  less  absorbed  in  watching.  He  grum- 
bled about  the  slackness  in  his  work  shop,  assur- 
ing me  that  he  no  longer  worked  more  than  three 
days  a  week.  Finally,  to  get  rid  of  him  I  gave 
him  five  francs,  and  he  went  off.  Marie,  who  was 
listening  to  the  great  organ  playing  a  march,  did 


156  REDEMPTION 

not  turn  round  at  this  moment,  did  not  make  any 
sign  to  him,  and,  in  fact,  probably  did  not  see 
him.  She  has  very  beautiful  dark  eyes,  such  as  I 
love.  And  yet  I  remained  ill  at  ease.  I  know 
Antoine  so  well,  and  Marie  Schwarz  still  so  little. 
I  did  not  know  how  to  warn  her.  But  still  I  could 
not  leave  her  exposed  to  my  brother's  schemings 
without  a  word  of  warning,  for  I  am  sure  he  will 
follow  her.  I  felt  it  as  if  I  were  the  sister  or  mother 
of  the  unfortunate  girl.  And  then  I  could  not  see 
them  fall  without  suffering  too.  I  think  it  is  the 
care  my  mother  took  of  me  when  I  was  little  that 
gives  me  these  ideas. 

"We  got  back.  I  tried  to  make  Marie  tell  me 
on  the  way  about  the  hats  that  she  had  seen. 
Mathilde  also  tried  to  question  her.  I  am  afraid 
that  my  recruit  will  never  be  really  interested  in 
fashions.  She  had  only  remembered  the  types  of 
people,  and  imitated  them  for  our  amusement. 

"I  felt  sad.  At  five  o'clock  Madame  Clemence 
came  into  the  work  room  and  allowed  us,  with  the 
exception  of  Mademoiselle  Augustine,  Reine,  and 
the  apprentice,  to  go  home.  Several  of  them 
shuddered  when  they  heard  mention  made  of  dis- 
charge. That  indicates  the  slack  season,  and 
means  that  they  will  have  to  leave  soon.  I  said 
to  Marie,  'Let  us  go  home  to  your  place;  I  want 
to  see  your  room.'  And  there  we  were,  like  old 
friends,  all  alone,  going  up  the  rue  Saint-Similieu. 

"I  thought  of  my  own  pretty  room  when  I  en- 
tered hers.  It  is  in  a  court  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  street,  toward  the  middle.  One  sees  the 
cathedral  through  the  porch.  For  eight  francs 


REDEMPTION  157 

Marie  had  found  a  furnished  room  there,  though 
I  trembled  to  think  of  the  kind  of  people  who  had 
lived  there  before,  and  still  haunted  the  neigh- 
bourhood. There  are  about  two  hundred  poor 
people  in  the  two  wings  and  front  of  the  old 
house.  One  goes  up  five  steps  made  of  slate  and 
patched  up  with  bricks.  Marie  opened  the  door 
and  said  in  a  peculiar  way: 

"'There,  that  is  Paradise.    I'll  go  in  first.' 

"Four  plain  white  walls,  which  had  been  white- 
washed some  ten  years  ago,  a  bed,  two  chairs  and 
a  table,  with  a  mirror  smaller  than  my  hand,  nailed 
up  close  by  the  window. 

"  First  I  joked  in  order  to  keep  from  crying. 
Fortunately  Marie  had  two  chairs.  I  said,  'Sup- 
pose we  have  supper? '  She  showed  me  the  black, 
empty  grate  without  a  saucepan  even.  'They 
have  forgotten  to  do  it,  you  see.'  Then  I  went 
and  got  a  few  more  provisions  and  a  little  more 
bread,  and  we  had  supper  off  the  white  wooden 
table.  We  were  both  quite  cheerful,  like  trees 
whose  dead  branches  are  covered  with  snow :  it  is 
not  worth  much  but  it  glitters.  I  blessed  the  will 
power  that  had  brought  me  there.  Marie  is  very 
open;  she  was  grateful  to  me  and  allowed  me  to 
advise  her,  as  one  can  a  comrade,  to  beware  of 
Antoine.  Only  I  was  alarmed  at  her  moral  igno- 
rance. She  said  to  me: 

"'Until  now  I  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  him 
or  any  other  man.  I  think  men  are  cowards. 
I  don't  think  they  l®ve  us  as  we  love  them.  They 
desert  us,  and  I  think  those  who  live  their  lives 
are  more  unhappy  than  those  who  do  not.  But 


158  REDEMPTION 

I  know  myself.  I  do  not  wish  to  deceive  you.  If 
ever  I  fall,  it  will  be  the  fault  of  my  evil  coun- 
sellor.' 

'"Who  is  he?' 

"'It's  always  the  same  one.  I  pay  eight  francs 
a  month  here  and  I  earn  fifteen.  And  I  must  have 
supper  and  clothes  and  firing,  and  I  must  wash 
my  two  waists  and  my  three  handkerchiefs.  I  am 
already  more  than  fifteen  francs  in  debt.  How 
do  you  expect  me  to  live?  One  day  when  I  am 
hungry  I  shall  let  myself  be  led  astray.' 

"It  cut  me  to  the  quick.  I  did  not  know  any 
longer  what  I  said. 

"Then  we  both  cried  in  each  other's  arms  in 
front  of  the  supper  table  because  we  could  not 
help  it.  She  has  no  faith.  She  has  forgotten  the 
few  prayers  she  used  to  know.  In  spite  of  that 
she  has  such  a  tender  and  impulsive  nature.  Un- 
fortunately, her  impulses  tend  toward  the  seamy 
side  of  things,  toward  evil  and  death.  I  seemed 
to  be  caressing  a  suffering  sister.  We  suffered  to- 
gether, and  I  feel  bound  to  her  by  all  the  fears 
I  feel  on  her  behalf  and  by  the  confidence  she 
placed  in  me.  Afterward  we  talked.  I  tried  to 
cheer  her  up.  I  planned  a  budget  for  her  that 
made  us  both  laugh  in  the  end,  it  was  so  com- 
plicated. I  promised  to  do  my  best  for  her  at 
Madame  Clemence's,  and  to  try  and  get  supper 
for  her,  or  a  little  better  pay. 

"She  clasped  me  closely  when  I  left  her.  The 
stars  were  shining  brightly  in  the  sky,  but  I  did 
not  see  them  until  I  reached  home.  I  was  think- 
ing only  of  her.  I  was  free  from  all  thought  of 


REDEMPTION  159 

myself..  Good  God!  how  I  longed  to  protect  her. 
And  I  had  nothing  of  all  that  is  needed  to  do  so. 
I,  whom  they  call  so  good,  have  nothing  but  a 
vague  desire  to  do  right.  I  feel  guilty  and  even 
weak. 

"Yes,  this  evening,  in  the  silence  of  my  room, 
whose  shelter  is  so  sweet,  I  realize  that  I  have 
wronged  Etienne  Loutrel.  Just  like  the  rest,  I 
require  love.  I  allowed  him  to  pay  me  attentions, 
so  that  I  might  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  being 
wrapped  round  with  tenderness.  I  never  thought 
that  Etienne  would  so  soon  think  he  had  a  right 
to  my  love.  All  our  past  friendship  seemed  to  be 
an  excuse  for  my  familiarity,  and  particularly  for 
his.  I  allowed  that  friendship  to  account  for  the 
light  in  his  eyes,  for  his  compliments  and  for  his 
attentions.  I  wanted  to  deceive  myself.  To  keep 
the  joy  of  his  first  confessions  of  love,  I  listened 
to  them,  and  I  refused  to  understand  them. 

"Now  that  he  has  openly  declared  himself  it 
would  be  cowardly  for  me  to  see  him  again,  or  to 
give  him  an  opportunity  to  tell  me,  'You  are 
pretty,  I  like  you  ever  so  much;  you  are  my 
chosen  one/  in  fact,  all  the  words  we  dream  of 
from  the  time  we  are  girls.  Poor  Etienne  touches 
my  heart,  because  he  is  so  good  and  straight  and 
because  he  loves  me,  and  I  begin  to  feel  that  I  am 
in  the  wrong  as  far  as  he  is  concerned.  But,  I  saw 
it  quite  clearly  the  other  day,  he  understands  noth- 
ing about  my  trade,  which  up  till  now  has  been 
the  chief  concern  of  my  life.  Would  it  not  be  a 
serious  matter  if  we  were  to  marry?  Could  I 
become  again,  even  if  I  loved  him,  what  I  was 


160  REDEMPTION 

just  ten  years  ago  now,  the  little  girl  who  had  left 
the  convent  school  and  had  read  nothing,  and 
dreamt  of  nothing  beyond  marrying  and  keeping 
house  for  a  working  man? 

"I  have  handled  too  much  velvet,  silk  and  lace; 
I  have  dabbled  too  much  in  fine  stuffs,  and  have 
made  too  many  pretty  things  for  others.  There  is 
in  me  a  sense  of  art  and  elegance  in  which  he 
would  have  no  part.  Even  if  I  were  to  give  up 
my  trade,  even  if  I  were  to  forsake  Uncle  Eloi, 
who  is  growing  old,  to  go  to  Mauves,  should  I  be 
really  happy,  and  could  I  become  so,  as  the  wife 
of  Etienne?  When  I  meet  young  men  who  belong 
to  the  really  fashionable  world,  I  am  well  aware 
of  the  fact  that  they  cannot  marry  me,  and  sev- 
eral of  them  have  taken  good  care  not  to  leave 
me  in  doubt  on  the  subject.  But  there  is  some- 
thing in  their  words  and  manners  that  pleases 
me,  and  I  should  like  to  find  a  lover  among 
them. 

"Fool  that  I  am.  I  believe  that  an  impossible 
element  has  entered  into  my  life  with  my  educa- 
tion in  fashion.  I  have  old  friends  of  my  child- 
hood, but  they  have  not  followed  on  my  track. 
They  have  married,  they  have  their  husbands 
and  their  two-roomed  houses  in  the  rue  de  Chan- 
tenay  or  d'Indret.  When  I  pass  I  see  them  with 
a  child  in  their  arms,  and  I  envy  them.  And  yet 
when  the  very  same  happiness  that  they  enjoy  is 
offered  to  me  I  am  quite  upset,  and  I  am  no  longer 
like  them. 

"Who  will  tell  me  what  to  do?  Who  will  help 
me?  And  I  am  supposed  to  be  the  adviser,  the 


REDEMPTION  161 

adviser  of  others.   How  they  would  pity  me  if  they 
but  knew." 

It  was  very  late  when  Henriette  fell  asleep. 
The  chill  of  midnight  had  covered  the  window 
panes  with  moisture.  No  sound  of  steps  could  be 
heard  on  the  quays,  only  the  usual  vague  sounds 
of  the  quarter,  the  croaking  of  frogs  and  the 
regular  creaking  of  the  chains  that  held  some 
large  boat  fast  to  its  moorings  on  the  marsh. 

Henriette's  soul  was  full  of  words  and  images 
of  love,  and  she  dreamed  that  she  had  been  mar- 
ried in  a  white  brocade-silk  dress  to  a  man  whose 
face  was  like  Etienne's,  though  otherwise  he  was 
most  elegant  and  very  rich,  and  he  bent  down  to 
her  to  whisper:  "My  darling,  your  troubles  are 
over.  I  love  you." 

That  same  night,  in  her  wretched  room  in  rue 
Saint-Similieu,  Marie  dreamed  that  she  had  cur- 
tains to  her  bed,  and  mirrors  in  which  she  could 
see  the  whole  of  herself,  and  which  shone  in  all 
the  colours  of  the  rainbow.  She  dreamed  that  it 
was  winter,  and  that  she  was  giving  tea  in  flow- 
ered china  cups  to  her  mother,  who  had  come 
back  from  Paris,  and  that  her  mother  was  recon- 
ciled and  affectionate  as  she  had  formerly  been, 
and  that  she  was  content  to  warm  her  weary 
hands  at  the  fire  which  burned  as  brightly  at  her 
daughter's  house  as  in  the  houses  of  the  rich. 

Far  from  there,  in  a  street  in  the  Saint-Felix 
quarter,  which  extends  along  the  Erdre,  little 
Louise,  the  apprentice,  with  tired  and  swollen 
ankles,  thought  of  the  time  when  she  would  be  a 


162  REDEMPTION 

full-blown  worker — a  trimmer  or  a  fitter — when 
she  would  no  longer  run  errands  about  town,  and 
when  her  companions  would  say  to  her:  "Made- 
moiselle Louise,  would  you  be  kind  enough  to  do 
so  and  so?"  And  the  half-open  lips  of  the  child 
smiled  in  the  darkness  at  this  simple  thought  of 
better  days  to  come. 

For  several  of  them  night  was  bringing  respite 
from  the  hardness  of  the  day,  for  at  night  souls 
flit  away  and  dwell  far  from  the  sleeping  bodies 
to  which  they  belong. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


IT  was  the  end  of  June.  Henriette  had  not  seen 
Etienne  again.  But  once  her  Uncle  Eloi  had  re- 
marked: "He's  a  good  fellow,  is  Etienne  Loutrel. 
I  like  him  for  his  decided  manner.  He  will  fight 
like  a  man,  and  be  a  good  husband.  What  do 
you  think  of  it,  Henriette?"  From  this  she  had 
concluded  that  the  fisherman  of  Mauves  had  had 
some  kind  of  interview  with  the  old  soldier,  and 
that  they  had  entered  into  a  league,  one  to  tell  his 
secrets  and  the  other  to  listen  to  them.  She  felt 
even  more  convinced  of  it  as  she  watched  her 
uncle's  humour.  He  no  longer  complained  of  his 
hand;  he  was  even  cheerful,  and  was  making 
plans  like  a  man  who  had  a  new  life  before  him. 
Was  not  all  Henriette's  life  before  him,  which  was 
the  counterpart  of  his  own? 

At  Madame  Clemence's  work  was  growing 
scarcer  from  day  to  day.  One  Saturday  even- 
ing Mademoiselle  Reine,  who  had  been  sent 
to  match  some  material  at  Mourieux's,  took  Hen- 
riette aside  at  the  work-room  door,  and  said  to 
her: 

"M.  Mourieux  wants  you  to  go  to  him  to- 
morrow morning.  Perhaps  he  wants  to  marry 
you,  who  knows?" 

"He?  I  have  not  had  an  hour's  talk  with  him 
in  the  whole  of  my  life.  'M.  Mourieux,  would 

163 


164  REDEMPTION 

you  kindly  let  me  have  ten  yards  of  gold  braid  ? ' 
'Yes,  Mademoiselle.'  And  that's  all." 
"Oh,  but  he  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you." 
Reine,  who  was  looking  at  the  houses  as  she 
walked  quickly  along  by  Henriette's  side,  had 
half  raised  her  tiny  oval  face  to  hers,  and  her  eyes, 
like  those  of  a  saint  in  a  stained-glass  window, 
light  eyes  like  two  coffee-beans  that  have  not  yet 
been  roasted,  looked  up  at  her,  as  she  added : 
"So  he  is  just  like  every  one  else,  then." 
Henriette  went  to  M.  Mourieux  as  the  town 
clocks  were  striking  ten.  He  lived  in  the  busi- 
est trade  quarter  of  the  town  of  Nantes,  in  a 
little  street  leading  to  the  Place  Royale.  The 
shops  were  almost  all  closed.  His  was  only  half- 
shut,  for  the  shutters  hid  the  ordinary  show  of 
trimmings,  artificial  flowers,  feathers,  and  shapes 
from  view,  while  the  door  was  open,  and  formed 
a  black  hole  in  the  side  of  the  street.  Inside  the 
shop  was  hatchet-shaped.  Narrow  in  front,  with 
cases  of  goods  ranged  all  along  the  walls,  it  wid- 
ened out  at  the  back,  showing  a  desk,  a  cupboard, 
and  a  great  sheet  of  cardboard  hanging  on  the  wall, 
on  to  which  slips  of  paper  were  fastened  by  means 
of  green  string  loops.  They  bore  the  words: 
"Situations  vacant  and  wanted  for  young  ladies 
in  the  millinery." 

For  many  years  Mourieux  had  hardly  left  his 
shop,  or  rather  the  back  part  of  it,  which  was  but 
dimly  lit  by  a  window  looking  out  on  to  a  neigh- 
bouring court.  He  was  always  there,  and  always 
the  same;  stout  and  thick-set,  bushy  eyebrows, 
with  short  thick  moustache  and  blackish-gray 


REDEMPTION  165 

hair  parted  on  one  side  and  brought  smoothly 
down  over  the  left  ear.  He  was  vulgar  and 
common-looking.  His  deep-sunk  eyes  were  very 
bright,  and  always  looked  straight  at  you,  and 
seemed  to  pierce  the  very  brain  of  the  person 
speaking  to  him.  At  first  he  might  be  taken  for 
a  clever  clown,  quite  absorbed  with  his  own 
affairs,  and  quite  capable  of  looking  after  his  three 
salesmen  and  cashier.  But  the  young  girls  in  the 
millinery  had  found  out  that  under  the  apparent 
guise  of  a  retired  policeman,  there  was  the  ten- 
derest  as  well  as  the  biggest  and  humblest  of 
hearts.  People  smiled  when  they  saw  him  con- 
stantly surrounded  by  these  pretty  girls,  who 
were  talking  to  him  in  a  low  voice  at  the  back  of 
the  shop,  while  an  assistant  was  measuring  the 
ribbon  and  tying  up  the  parcels.  But  these  girls, 
who  were  good  judges  and  quickly  learned  the 
open  secret  of  a  man's  attentions,  knew  by  ex- 
perience and  by  the  tradition  of  their  elders  that 
he  rendered  services  for  the  sole  pleasure  of  oblig- 
ing them,  from  a  kind  of  natural  impulse,  which 
was  now  a  habit  of  thirty  years'  standing.  They 
worshipped  him.  He  kept  a  register  of  employ- 
ment for  them,  found  them  places,  recommended 
them  to  employers  who  applied  to  him,  and  often, 
without  wishing  to  do  so,  was  made  to  share  the 
more  or  less  tellable  mysteries  of  their  lives.  He 
never  joked  with  them,  and  that  form  of  respect 
touched  them  all. 

Henriette  knew  him  but  slightly.  She  entered 
the  shop,  and  at  the  back,  near  the  open  cup- 
board filled  with  rows  of  old  books  which  he  used 


166  REDEMPTION 

to  lend  his  clients,  she  saw  the  shopkeeper  sitting 
in  his  cane  arm-chair,  while  Louise  the  appren- 
tice was  standing  in  front  of  the  library.  The 
girl's  arms  hung  down  by  her  side,  and  her  large 
dishevelled  head  was  facing  the  book  shelves 
and  scanning  the  titles  of  the  books. 

"Well,  now,  which  book  do  you  want?"  asked 
Mourieux. 

"I  don't  know,  Monsieur,  it's  for  my  Sunday 
off." 

"Do  you  want  a  book  of  history,  or  travels,  or 
stories?" 

She  stood  on  her  right  leg,  the  left  being  more 
swollen  and  more  painful. 

She  stretched  out  both  her  hands  with  a  naive, 
childlike  gesture,  and  said: 

"I  don't  know:  give  me  a  book  to  make  me 
cry." 

Mourieux  rose,  and  bending  over  one  of  the 
shelves  of  the  cupboard,  took  a  volume  and 
handed  it  to  Louise,  who  went  off  half-limping  in 
the  semi-darkness,  and  greeted  Henriette  in  the 
passage  with  an  expression  of  sudden  joy  in  her 
eyes. 

"Good-day,  Mademoiselle  Henriette,"  said 
Mourieux.  "Pardon  me  for  having  sent  for  you: 
It  is  hard  for  me  to  get  out  on  Sundays,  you  see." 

"It  is  your  own  doing,"  said  Henriette,  sitting 
down  beside  the  book  cupboard  opposite  Mour- 
ieux, who  dropped  heavily  into  his  arm-chair. 
"You  turn  librarian  for  love  of  your  clients. 
That's  a  luxury." 

"She's  a  good  little  girl,  that  apprentice  of 


REDEMPTION  167 

yours.  And  miserably  out  of  sorts,  too.  How  do 
you  expect  me  to  get  out?  If  I  were  not  there  to 
choose  her  books,  she  would  go  into  the  public 
libraries,  where  they  give  them  everything. 
Mademoiselle  Henriette,  Madame  Lemarie  wants 
me  to  speak  to  you." 

The  name  of  Lemarie  changed  Henriette's 
frame  of  mind.  It  destroyed  her  first  impression. 

" Again?"  she  said.  "Surely  she  does  not  want 
another  hat?" 

"No." 

He  was  buried  in  his  arm-chair  with  his  head 
bent  forward  as  usual,  and  as  he  spoke  he  followed, 
in  that  obstinate  way  of  his,  the  track  that  words 
make  in  the  hearts  of  listeners. 

"Mademoiselle  Henriette,  you  do  not  seem  to 
me  to  do  her  justice.  I  have  known  her  ever  since 
her  marriage.  Unhappiness  has  saved  her  from 
selfishness;  she  is  generous;  she  is  admirable, 
and  she  is  now  free  to  do  good.  She  has  thought 
of  you." 

"Thank  you,  we  are  not  rich,  but  we  are  able 
to  live,  especially  now,  with  my  uncle's  pension." 

"You  have  not  let  me  finish.  She  thought 
you  might  be  able  to  assist  her  in  her  charities. 
She  knows  that  you  have  a  number  of  friends 
among  the  poor  in  your  part  of  the  town;  people 
are  not  afraid  of  you;  you  know  what  misery 
means.  Oh,  yes,  don't  be  shy,  I  know  who  you 
are.  Won't  you  tell  her  what  poor  people,  real 
poor  people,  to  help  in  your  quarter?  She  will 
refuse  you  nothing." 

"But  that  is  a  mission." 


168  REDEMPTION 

"Which  does  you  credit,  Mademoiselle,  and  re- 
member it  will  enable  you  to  help  sick  comrades, 
or  those  who  are  out  of  work.  And  you  will  be 
able  to  do  it  gently  and  without  speaking  of  it. 
There  is  suffering  even  in  the  millinery  trade 
during  the  slack  season." 

"Yes,"  replied  Henriette,  "but  why  am  I  to 
do  it?" 

"I  will  tell  you  who  has  pointed  you  out  to 
Madame  Lemarie.  You  will  not  have  far  to  seek : 
it  is  I.  I  don't  want  to  offend  you,  but  I  have 
been  thinking  for  a  long  time  that  you  are  very 
good  and  kind-hearted." 

Henriette  laughed  nervously. 

"I,  indeed?  You  must  explain  to  me,  M.  Mou- 
rieux.  Come  now." 

And  even  as  she  laughed,  she  was  somewhat 
anxiously  observing  the  person  who  had  formu- 
lated the  idea,  and  had  passed  a  judgment  on 
her,  which  had  already  often  troubled  her.  Did 
not  others  speak  to  her  continually  as  to  a  chosen 
being,  who  was  devoting  herself  to  some  mission 
of  mercy?  She  felt  inclined  to  get  up  and  go 
away  and  escape,  in  her  girlish  pride  and  fear  of  all 
control.  She  was  distrustful  of  this  mission  of 
sacrifice  and  exception  which  was  to  be  thrust 
upon  her,  but  her  straightforward  nature  pre- 
vailed. Henriette  did  not  get  up.  She  bent  down, 
and  felt  as  if  Fate  itself  were  speaking  to  her. 
She  stretched  her  dainty  neck  and  her  eyes  still 
glistened. 

Mourieux  did  not  answer  at  once,  so  she  re- 
sumed : 


169 

"What  do  you  all  want  with  me?  For  after 
all  I  am  like  all  the  rest." 

The  old  shopkeeper  rubbed  his  hands  on  his 
knees,  because  Henriette  rather  frightened  him, 
and  he  replied,  for  he  had  no  other  guide  than  his 
own  heart: 

"  Pardon  me,  I  may  be  mistaken,  but  still  I  do 
not  think  so.  I  only  wanted  you  to  give  a  little 
help  to  those  who  are  thinking  about  other  people. 
They  are  rare,  Mademoiselle.  I  am  old;  I  can't 
do  much  myself;  but  you,  with  your  youth  and 
beauty,  and  the  words  that  you  alone  can  find, 
how  you  could  comfort  the  poor;  and  it  is  pleas- 
anter  than  you  think." 

He  shook  his  large  head. 

"You  will  say,"  he  continued,  "that  I  am  med- 
dling with  what  does  not  concern  me.  But 
Madame  Lemarie  asked  me  to  speak  to  you. 
She  did  not  venture  to  do  so,  as  she  knew  you 
even  less  than  I  do." 

Henriette  drew  herself  up,  with  a  serious  look 
in  her  face  that  still  expressed  the  very  thoughts 
that  he  had  uttered,  as  happens  in  the  case  of 
those  who  have  been  listening  with  full  concen- 
tration of  mind. 

"Thank  you,  M.  Mourieux,  I  thank  you.  I  am 
only  afraid  that  you  think  too  well  of  me.  And 
then  I  am  twenty-four,  I  am " 

She  remained  with  her  lips  half-open  without 
pronouncing  the  words:  "Some  one  loves  me." 
In  fact  Etienne's  image  was  appearing  to  her  this 
very  moment,  as  if  to  prevent  her  from  yielding. 
She  seemed  to  see  him  again  as  he  had  been  in  the 


170  REDEMPTION 

morning  stillness  by  the  Loire,  standing  in  the 
boat  with  folded  arms.  She  felt  as  if  something 
at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  were  bursting  into 
tears.  Yet  what  was  being  asked  of  her  was  not 
a  barrier  to  anything  in  ordinary  life  or  in  mar- 
riage. She  was  nervous. 

Slowly  she  rose,  looked  at  the  crystal  handle  of 
her  sunshade,  and  said: 

"I  did  not  want  anything  of  this  kind.  But 
I  might  be  wronging  others  if  I  refused.  If 
you  really  think  I  ought  to  go  to  Madame  Le- 
marie : 

"I  wish  you  would." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  go." 

A  moment  later  Mourieux,  bending  across  the 
threshold  of  his  shop,  watched  the  girl  walk  away 
straight  down  the  middle  of  the  street.  She 
walked  well,  and  with  her  left  hand  she  was  lift- 
ing the  folds  of  her  black  skirt. 

He  looked  pleased. 

"If  she  only  would,"  he  thought.  "Why  the 
poor  would  adore  the  very  sight  of  her.  Yet  there 
are  fools  who  think  that  they  can  all  be  bought — 
the  millinery  hands.  They  don't  know  them. 
Of  course  they  are  not  all  saints.  But  there  are 
some  fine  characters  among  them,  brave  and 
straightforward  souls  capable  of  untold  devotion. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


SHE  threaded  her  way  haphazardly,  passing  some 
blocks  of  houses,  and  then  coming  back  to  the 
point  from  which  she  started,  enjoying  in  turn 
sun  and  shade  and  the  noise  of  the  street  as  if 
they  were  so  many  amusements  that  put  off  the 
hour  of  the  visit.  Should  she  go?  What  need 
was  there  for  her  to  take  up  new  duties  and  busy 
herself  with  others'  cares?  She  was  surprised  that 
old  Mourieux  was  so  intelligent.  In  the  millinery 
they  had  always  looked  upon  him  as  a  good- 
natured  sort  of  fellow,  who  liked  to  do  people 
kindnesses,  though  after  all  it  was  to  his  own 
advantage,  because  his  customers  would  remain 
true  to  him.  "I  did  not  think  he  was  so  good," 
she  thought.  His  words  came  back  to  her  again: 
"You,  with  your  youth  and  beauty,  how  you 
could  comfort  them." 

She  finished  up  by  ringing  at  Madame  Le- 
marie's  house. 

A  footman  introduced  her  into  the  blue  room. 
But  this  time  Henriette  pressed  the  hand  that 
Madame  Lemarie  stretched  out  toward  her. 

"It  is  my  turn  to  thank  you  to-day,  Mademoi- 
selle. Then  you  have  seen  Mourieux?" 

But  they  talked  about  all  sorts  of  things  before 
approaching  the  subject  that  had  brought  them 
together.  They  spoke  about  Uncle  Madiot,  about 

171 


172  REDEMPTION 

the  work  shop  and  the  Rue  de  1'Ermitage,  and  Hen- 
riette's  companions  at  work.  Madame  Lemarie* 
was  slowly  studying  the  girl,  and  gradually  the 
latter  was  won  over  by  the  humble  kindness  of  the 
woman.  After  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
Madame  Lemarie'  felt  that  she  could  speak  freely. 

"I  am  going  to  trust  you  with  a  secret,"  she 
said,  "and  one  of  my  most  precious  ones.  My 
good  old  Mourieux  is  going  off  fast.  He  has  done 
a  great  deal  for  me  in  the  past,  by  passing  on 
assistance  that  would  not  have  been  accepted  if  it 
had  been  known  to  come  from  me.  When  one  of 
our  workmen  was  discharged  without  a  real  rea- 
son, or  even  sometimes  for  reasons  that  seemed 
but  too  well  founded,  I  could  not  offer  to  help 
him,  could  I?  Mourieux  was  my  agent.  I  also 
helped  him  a  little  in  the  assistance  he  gave — not  to 
full-blown  workers  like  you,  but  to  the  younger 
hands  in  the  millinery,  who  were  not  yet  earning, 
or  who  were  sick  and  weak,  or  out  of  work.  To- 
day, when  I  can  give  more  and  better  than  I  used 
to  do,  good  old  Mourieux  is  growing  old.  I 
wanted  some  one — some  one  from  your  own 
world,  some  one  whom  no  one  fears,  whom  people 
would  trust  more  naturally  than  they  would  me — • 
who  would  say  to  me:  "See  yonder,  there  is  suf- 
fering that  wants  easing.  For  the  world  is  so 
divided,  Mademoiselle,  we  want  a  permit  before 
we  may  be  allowed  to  show  pity.  Do  you  think 
I  can  find  such  a  person?" 

Henriette  stretched  out  her  gloved  hand,  and 
said  in  her  clear  voice : 

"I  will  try,  Madame." 


REDEMPTION  173 

"You  will  not  even  need  to  come  to  me.  At 
least  I  will  not  ask  you  to  do  so,  for  you  have  so 
little  spare  time.  Write  to  me.  Keep  me  in- 
formed of  the  sufferings  you  encounter,  great  and 
small,  and  even  the  charities  you  think  it  would 
be  useful  to  support.  I  will  keep  it  all  secret,  and 
you  will  do  the  same  for  me,  as  far  as  you  are 
able." 

Henriette  had  gained  so  much  confidence  that 
she  ventured  to  speak  of  Marie.  They  took  coun- 
sel together.  Madame  Lemarie  ended  by  saying: 

"Buy  her  a  little  stock  of  furniture,  and  let  her 
think  that  you  are  paying  for  it.  Otherwise  she 
would  sell  it." 

Even  when  they  had  spoken  about  Marie,  Hen- 
riette did  not  leave  at  once.  She  stayed  on,  held 
spellbound  by  a  delicious  sensation.  She  felt  that 
she  was  pleasant  to  look  upon  and  listen  to.  In 
the  old  lady's  face  she  read  the  words  that  chil- 
dren and  young  and  beloved  women  hear  every- 
where around  them:  "Do  not  go  yet.  You  are 
a  reflection  of  joyous  life  in  the  tarnished  mirror 
of  our  gaze." 

At  the  same  time  Madame  Lemarie  was  think- 
ing: "How  quickly  she  has  understood."  And 
unconsciously,  guided  by  the  mysterious  force 
that  compels  our  actions  in  the  greatest  issues, 
she  offered  to  this  child  the  most  unexpected  and 
most  unheeded  of  rewards — the  blessing  of  the 
poor — and  confided  the  distribution  of  alms  to 
hands  that  would  carry  healing  with  them  as  they 
gave. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


WAS  it  a  new  life  that  was  opening  up  before  her? 
No  one  can  say  what  portion  of  a  past  that  is  far 
remote  plays  a  part  in  what  we  call  the  new  life. 
But  the  two  months  which  followed  were  the  hap- 
piest that  Henriette  had  ever  spent.  She  made 
discreet  use  of  the  power  that  was  given  to  her. 
She  did  not  like  asking  even  to  give  to  others. 
But  her  instinct  of  pity  had  received  an  impulse, 
and  there  is  no  feeling  that  gains  greater  ground 
in  life  when  once  a  little  liberty  is  granted  it,  when 
it  is  allowed  to  say:  "You  are  in  want?  Well 
then,  take." 

After  supper  in  the  evenings — those  long  sum- 
mer evenings  that  lengthen  into  clear  nights — 
Henriette  liked  to  go  down  the  Ermitage  Hill, 
and  among  the  crowded  blocks  of  workmen's 
dwellings,  some  of  which  were  lower  and  some 
higher  than  the  level  of  the  new  street,  some 
showing  the  rough  stones  of  their  foundations 
and  fitted  with  railed  flights  of  stairs,  she  met 
groups  of  people  who  were  drinking  in  the  air. 
A  crowd  of  folk  they  were,  who  breathe  bad  air 
by  day  in  the  work  shops  and  by  night  in  their 
crowded  rooms,  and  who  stay  out  of  doors  of  an 
evening  until  the  mist  moistens  the  tips  of  their 
hair  or  their  moustaches.  She  would  say:  "How 
are  your  little  ones?"  or  "Has  work  begun  again 

174 


REDEMPTION  175 

in  the  Moulin  work  shop?"  "Are  you  no  longer 
out  of  work?"  or  "Is  your  sister  confined,  Madame 
Vivien?  Is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl?  "  The  real  alms  she 
gave  consisted  of  her  well-dressed  youth  and 
charm.  She  was  regarded  without  suspicion, 
because  she  belonged  to  the  people  and  the  quar- 
ter; they  enjoyed  her  presence  because  she  knew 
how  to  speak,  smile,  and  dress  like  a  lady.  They 
opened  up  to  her.  They  called  her  "Mademoi- 
selle Henriette."  They  had  forgotten  her  family 
name  in  order  to  remember  only  her  Christian 
name,  which  was  a  sign  of  friendliness.  Almost 
everywhere  with  the  quiet  fear  of  a  wise  virgin 
she  was  able  to  sound  the  depths  of  sorrow  and 
evil.  Anger  and  domestic  strife,  rivalry,  adul- 
tery, the  ingratitude  of  children  who  refused  to 
assist  the  old,  the  contempt  for  the  rich  and  the 
terrible  envy  of  wealth,  feuds  fostered  between 
father  and  son,  despair  too  long  endured  in  the 
hard  struggle  for  bread,  hearts  that  flagged  and 
bodies  that  failed,  she  beheld  them  all.  She  made 
the  universal  suffering  her  own. 

The  world  appeared  to  her  in  all  its  aspects  of 
pain.  She  had  no  other  remedy  to  offer  than  her 
pity,  her  outstretched  hands,  and  the  words  she 
had  not  yet  learned  to  say  fluently:  "Hope,  for- 
get, cheer  up,  to-morrow  will  be  better,  and  to-day 
I  feel  with  and  for  you."  Yet  even  at  so  little  cost 
she  was  surprised  to  find  great  sufferings  eased 
and  tears  stop  falling,  and  something  like  a  truce 
to  ills  ensue.  Those  who  listened  to  her  thought: 
"Is  it  really  true  that  we  may  hope?"  And  this 
simple  possibility  cheered  them  a  little.  Some- 


176  REDEMPTION 

times  it  seemed  to  Henriette  as  if  she  were  throw- 
ing out  planks  to  shipwrecked  folk.  In  those 
days  she  went  home  quite  late  at  night,  but  so 
light-hearted  that  she  said  to  herself:  "Am  I  then 
growing  younger?  I  feel  like  singing."  Her  uncle 
scolded  her:  "What  a  late  hour  to  go  to  bed.  If 
I  did  not  know  you  better,  I  should  say  you  had 
got  a  love  affair  on."  Henriette  reassured  him, 
but  did  not  deny  it. 

On  Sundays  she  went  out  for  walks,  sometimes 
with  her  uncle,  and  sometimes  with  Marie.  But 
when  the  setting  sun  threw  shadows  on  a  level 
with  the  wall  she  never  missed  crossing  the 
Avenue  of  Saint  Anne,  which  crowns  the  hill  near 
the  church.  There,  in  the  shelter  of  the  low 
houses  or  the  almost  leafless  trees  that  grow  on 
the  stony  soil,  she  met  nearly  all  her  friends  of  the 
quarter,  crowded  together  like  a  covey  of  par- 
tridges. The  children  were  playing  all  together. 
The  mothers  were  chatting  in  little  groups,  sepa- 
rated one  from  the  other,  each  with  a  shadow  of 
its  own.  The  gathering  dust  crested  the  hill,  and 
formed  a  spiral  in  the  breeze  that  rose  from  the 
Loire. 

At  the  same  time  the  slack  season  was  dispers- 
ing the  workgirls  at  Madame  Clemence's.  Sev- 
eral of  them,  at  a  few  days'  notice,  were  obliged 
to  take  forced  holidays  until  the  end  of  September : 
Mathilde,  Jeanne,  Lucie  and  others  were  among 
them.  When  the  day  was  over,  one  of  them  would 
be  called  in  to  see  the  chief.  She  would  return  a 
few  moments  later  with  red  eyes.  With  all  her 
courage  and  all  her  pride  baffled,  she  would  still 


REDEMPTION  177 

keep  sufficient  composure  to  say:  "Good-by, 
girls.  It's  my  turn  this  evening.  I  am  given  a 
holiday."  Her  own  friends  kissed  her,  and  the 
others  shook  hands  with  her.  No  one  appeared 
to  doubt  their  meeting  again  in  October.  And 
yet  experience  had  taught  them  that  the  caprice 
of  fashion  extends  even  as  far  as  their  engagements, 
and  that  those  who  leave  with  a  promise  of  re- 
engagement  do  not  always  return.  They  put  on 
their  ties,  they  went  down  the  stairs  a  little  before 
the  others,  and  that  evening,  for  the  first  time  in 
the  year,  they  did  not  wait  for  their  work-room 
companions,  to  repeat  on  the  threshold  of  the 
door:  " Good-by,  Irma;  good-by,  Reine;  good- 
by,  Henriette."  Sorrow  drove  them  away  quick- 
ly, far  from  the  favoured  folk  who  would  go 
on  working  without  them  at  the  green  tables. 
The  apprentice  would  put  the  unused  stool  into 
the  recess  for  clothes.  The  next  morning  one  of 
the  incomers  would  look  round  for  the  absent  one, 
would  remember,  sigh,  and  be  silent. 

Fortunately  Marie  Schwarz  stayed  on,  thanks 
to  Henriette,  who  had  become  sufficiently  influ- 
ential to  obtain  for  her  protegee  a  slight  advance 
in  salary.  ' '  I  am  doing  it  solely  on  your  account," 
Madame  Clemence  said,  "and  it  is  almost  unfair." 
Such  favours  naturally  gained  Henriette  the 
affection  of  the  girls,  which  the  fear  of  Made- 
moiselle Augustine,  the  first  hand,  had  hitherto 
kept  back.  One  afternoon  Reine  at  one  end  of 
the  table  bent  over  to  her  and  said:  "Mademoi- 
selle Henriette,  I  want  to  tell  you  a  secret.  I  be- 
lieve I  am  going  to  be  married  in  the  autumn.  I 


178  REDEMPTION 

shall  be  poor,  but  dearly  loved.  He  is  on  the  rail- 
way. Will  you  come  on  Sunday?  I  shall  be  so 
pleased  if  you  like  him.  We  have  been  speaking 
about  you."  Irma  had  said  the  same  thing  to 
her  one  day  when  Henriette  asked  her:  "Are  you 
tired?  Have  you  got  a  cough?"— "I?  Oh,  I  am 
done  for;  I  have  known  that  for  a  long  time. 
When  I  am  quite  ill,  not  as  I  am  now,  I  shall  send 
for  you  to  comfort  me.  But  that  isn't  a  very 
pleasing  prospect  for  you.  In  the  meantime 
would  you  like  to  read  one  of  Daudet's  stories? 
I  have  one  that  is  so  pretty  that  I  have  copied  it 
all  out,  because  I  could  not  keep  the  book.  I  will 
bring  you  my  exercise  book.  Shall  I?" 

Marie  remained  the  same,  a  bold  creature,  and 
only  a  fair  worker,  without  inner  life  of  any  kind, 
but  absolutely  frank  and  affectionate.  She  said 
once  laughingly,  on  one  of  the  Sunday  walks; 
''Do  you  know,  I  don't  think  your  brother  An- 
toine  would  mind  making  love  to  me,  but  I  don't 
want  him  to,  you  see.  You  would  not  like  it." 
They  called  each  other  "thou"  ever  since  Marie 
had  had  her  higher  salary  from  Madame  Cle"m- 
ence.  Henriette  made  no  attempt  at  useless  talk. 
But  by  an  inspiration  of  her  girlish  and  artistic 
mind  she  had  hastened  to  beautify  the  home  of 
the  poor  girl.  She  knew  that  ugly  walls  have  a 
bad  effect  on  one,  and  in  time,  and  with  the  dis- 
creet aid  of  Madame  Lemarie  as  well  as  marvel- 
lous economy,  she  had  been  able  to  give  to  Marie's 
room  almost  an  air  of  coquettish  charm.  Every- 
thing had  been  re-whitewashed.  There  were  cur- 
tains at  the  windows,  and  a  new  table  with  a  table- 


REDEMPTION  179 

cloth,  and  on  the  walls  two  pictures,  landscapes,  to 
which  Henriette  was  much  attached,  but  which 
she  had  lent  to  her  friend.  "You  can  give  them 
back  to  me  when  you  are  rich,  Marie." 

An  awakened  soul  becomes  creative  at  once. 
She  thought  of  new  models  of  such  good  taste 
that  Madame  Clemence  herself  remarked,  as  she 
placed  them  on  the  high  black  stands  in  the  show- 
room: "I  know  what  has  happened:  she  is  in 
full  flower  now.  They  all  have  a  time  when  they 
are  like  fairies.  It  lasts  for  three  or  six  months 
and  never  comes  again." 

That  year  the  young  women  and  girls,  who 
wore  wondrous  confections  designed  by  Henri- 
ette, were  all  complimented  on  their  good  taste. 
Their  toilettes  were  a  success  at  the  casinos,  on 
the  plage,  at  the  races,  and  at  the  first  meets  of 
the  hunt. 

Oh!  you  rich  of  the  earth,  did  you  but  know  of 
the  sad  hours  linked  with  the  charming  creations 
that  you  wear. 

Nearly  every  morning  Etienne  passed  up  the 
Loire  in  his  boat  to  reach  Trentemoult.  Henri- 
ette leaned  over  her  balcony,  and,  very  pale,  she 
watched  the  boatman  of  the  Loire,  who  also  was 
disinclined  to  break  the  silence.  Twice  only, 
when  the  light  was  so  clear  and  free  from  mist 
that  they  were  able  to  distinguish  each  other's 
features,  he  took  a  bunch  of  flowers  from  the  top 
of  his  basket  and  threw  it  up.  A  little  coloured 
ball  rose  in  the  air  toward  the  rocks  of  Saint  Anne, 
fell  into  the  water,  and  was  swept  down  the  Loire. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE  acacias  of  the  Rue  de  PErmitage  lost  every 
vestige  of  green  with  the  first  September  rains; 
their  leaves  hung  down  as  yellow  as  dates.  The 
employees  discussed  who  would  return  at  the 
end  of  the  month.  Morning  and  evening  were 
cold,  last  year's  mantles  and  jackets  began  to  re- 
appear at  Madame  Clemence's,  disguised  with 
new  collars  and  trimmings,  but  the  storms  so  fre- 
quent in  the  valley  of  the  Loire  brought  with 
them  suffocating  heat  during  the  day.  One  after- 
noon, worn  out  by  the  trying  summer,  Henriette 
felt  almost  exhausted.  Through  the  windows  of 
the  work  shop  heavy  gray  clouds  fringed  with 
gold  could  be  seen  spreading  like  a  pall  over  the 
sky.  The  usually  active  and  inventive  Henriette 
let  her  eyes  roam  from  the  sky  to  the  discoloured 
walls,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  her  hands  lying 
idly  on  the  table.  Her  hair  felt  as  heavy  as  though 
made  of  solid  gold.  She  fell  asleep. 

Madame  Clemence,  entering  on  tiptoe,  said  drily, 
"Mademoiselle  Henriette,  come  here,  please,  I 
wish  to  speak  to  you." 

The  forewoman,  Mademoiselle  Augustine,  who 
hated  Henriette,  and  was  madly  jealous  of  herr 
began  to  laugh,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  leav- 
ing visible  only  the  top  of  her  forehead  and  the 
lower  part  of  her  coarse,  red  cheeks. 

180 


REDEMPTION  181 

Henriette,  covered  with  confusion,  followed  hex1 
employer  into  the  next  room  without  a  word. 

"My  child,"  said  Madame  Clemence,  her  tone 
changing  instantly,  "I  am  going  to  give  you  a 
piece  of  news  which  will  please  you.  You  are 
going  to  be  forewoman  from  to-morrow;  you 
have  talent,  the  young  ladies  are  fond  of  you,  and 
I  have  full  confidence  in  you." 

Henriette  grew  pale  with  emotion;  her  eyelids 
were  lowered,  but  she  raised  them  slowly  and 
murmured  her  thanks.  Almost  at  once,  however, 
she  recovered  herself:  "What  is  to  become  of 
Mademoiselle  Augustine?"  she  asked. 

"She  leaves  me,  of  course." 

"Does  she  know?" 

"She  has  her  suspicions.  What  can  you  ex- 
pect, Mademoiselle  Henriette?  She  is  worn  out; 
I  cannot  help  it,"  continued  Madame  Clemence, 
seeing  that  her  new  forewoman  was  painfully 
affected  by  the  dismissal  of  the  old  one,  in  spite  of 
the  little  sympathy  between  them.  "As  for 
yourself,  I  have  a  confidential  errand  for  you. 
You  are  to  take  the  train  for  Paris  the  day  after 
to-morrow  to  buy  the  models  for  my  winter  sea- 
son. We  will  talk  about  it  to-morrow  morning." 

Madame  Clemence  paused  an  instant  to  rear- 
range with  a  coquettish  gesture  the  folds  of  her 
elaborate  head-dress. 

"I  think,"  she  continued,  with  the  smile  usually 
reserved  for  rich  clients,  "that  you  are  a  little 
overcome.  Go  into  the  showroom  and  rest. 
There  is  no  one  there.  Take  a  shape  with  you,  and 
if  you  have  an  idea,  create  another  masterpiece." 


182  REDEMPTION 

She  was  in  reality  anxious  that  Henriette 
should  be  spared  a  meeting,  and  possibly  a  pain- 
ful scene. 

The  young  girl  understood.  Alone  and  noise- 
lessly she  entered  the  blue  plush  showroom,  her 
feet  sinking  into  the  heavy  carpet,  and  immedi- 
ately four  happy  reflections  of  herself  flashed 
from  the  mirrors  framed  in  foliage.  She  was  in- 
deed pretty  in  this  first  hour  of  her  sovereignty. 
Her  happiness  appeared  to  her  as  a  thing  apart, 
as  some  rich  diamond  with  which  she  had  adorned 
herself.  It  shone  in  her  look,  it  glittered  from  her 
erown  of  fair  hair,  it  was  visible  on  her  lips,  which 
possessed  the  Florentine  gift  of  smiling  though  in 
repose;  it  was  visible,  too,  in  the  carriage  of  her 
head,  no  longer  heavy  with  fatigue.  She  had  sat 
down  in  a  recess. 

Light  streamed  through  the  glass  roof,  gilding 
and  caressing  the  whole  room.  Moved  by  the 
silence  and  her  rich  surroundings,  Henriette  felt 
her  surprise  and  joy  increase,  and  as  girls  of  her 
class  are  not  given  to  idle  dreams,  her  dream  soon 
began  to  take  shape.  She  seized  four  silk  roses, 
an  aigrette,  two  pearl  clasps,  four  green  and  red 
leaves,  and  began  to  twist  and  arrange  stalks  and 
flowers,  and  to  pleat  the  tulle  she  held.  Inspira- 
tion had  returned  to  her.  In  less  than  an  hour 
her  work  was  nearly  finished. 

"How  pleased  Madame  Clemence  will  be,"  she 
thought;  "how  easy  things  are,  when  one  is 
happy." 

She  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  a  footstep.  A 
few  yards  from  the  door  stood  Mademoiselle 


REDEMPTION  183 

Augustine;  she,  too,  was  reflected  in  the  four 
mirrors.  She  carried  her  jacket  on  her  arm,  and 
a  handbag.  She  looked  half  distracted. 

She  was  leaving,  worn  out,  having  given  her 
youth  to  fashion,  with  no  profession  and  at  an  age 
when  one  cannot  learn  anything  new.  In  a  few 
seconds  she  would  disappear,  to  grapple  with  the 
unknown.  She  caught  sight  of  Henriette.  Her 
eyes,  fierce  as  those  of  an  animal  at  bay,  met 
those  of  Henriette  alight  with  happy  dreams. 

"Excuse  me — I  came  to  see, — for  the  last 
time- 

Henriette  adranced  toward  the  door,  holding 
out  her  hands,  which  bore  the  marks  of  her  pro- 
fession. The  movement,  though  one  of  comrade- 
ship, was  meant,  too,  to  justify  and  explain  her 
position.  "We  have  worked  so  hard,"  the  ex- 
pressive hands,  transparent  in  the  light,  seemed 
to  say.  "See  the  blood  in  our  veins  is  impover- 
ished, we  are  wounded,  and  already  worn." 

The  eyes  from  under  the  white  lids  spoke  elo- 
quently also. 

"Do  you  bear  me  malice  if  I  am  happy?"  they 
said;  "one  must  live.  I  have  not  injured  you. 
I  could  not  love  you,  but  I  grieve  for  you,  you 
who  are  going  out  into  the  dark  night." 

The  other  hesitated.  The  madness  of  misery 
haunted  her  already.  Throwing  back  her  head 
with  what  she  believed  to  be  a  proud  gesture,  the 
poor  thing  cast  a  look  of  contempt  on  Henriette, 
directed  chiefly  at  youth,  talent,  success — all  that 
she  herself  had  lost.  Then  the  reddened  eyelids 
became  moist,  and  Mademoiselle  Augustine  put 


184  REDEMPTION 

out  her  hand  as  little  as  need  be.    They  shook 
hands  in  silence. 

It  was  seven  o'clock.  Henriette  came  home 
earlier  than  usual.  Old  Madiot,  leaning  over  the 
stove  stirring  awkwardly  a  stew  that  he  was  cook- 
ing, heard  the  rickety  stairs  creak. 

He  listened  smiling.  "  There  comes  my  little 
girl/'  he  thought.  "I  wonder  what  has  happened 
that  she  is  coming  up  so  quickly." 

The  stairs  creaked  more  furiously  than  before, 
the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Henriette  came 
running  in.  Before  the  old  man  could  turn,  her 
arms  were  round  his  neck,  and  he  was  enveloped 
in  silk,  lace,  and  tulle. 

"Uncle,  I  am  forewoman,"  she  cried,  kissing 
him  three  times. 

"Good  heavens!  you  should  have  given  warn- 
ing, and  I  would  have  shaved.  Forewoman  of 
what?" 

"At  Madame  Clemence's.  Forewoman  in  the 
place  of  Mademoiselle  Augustine.  I  am  to  have 
one  hundred  francs  per  month;  we  are  rich.  Oh, 
Uncle,  I  am  so  happy." 

She  drew  back  to  see  the  effect  of  her  surprise. 
He  was  the  only  one  to  rejoice  with  her,  the  sole 
relative  with  whom  to  share  the  great  news. 

Ideas  filtered  slowly  into  Madiot's  brain.  "I 
am  not  surprised  that  you  should  win  promo- 
tion," he  said  quietly. 

He  began  to  lay  the  table,  putting  two  plates 
opposite  each  other,  while  Henriette  went  into  the 
next  room. 


REDEMPTION  185 

Gradually  he  commenced  to  show  signs  of  joy, 
as  drooping  flowers  show  slow  signs  of  life  when 
placed  in  water.  Quick  words  passed  from  room 
to  room. 

"I,  too,  should  have  won  promotion  had  my 
father  given  me  an  education.  But,  there,  I  did 
not  know  my  alphabet,  whereas  you —  What 
rank  in  the  army  would  forewoman  correspond 
to — sergeant,  perhaps?" 

"Oh,  better  than  that,"  replied  a  laughing 
voice. 

"Adjutant?  What  a  fine  rank,  you  lord  it  in  the 
barracks?" 

"Just  so!" 

"And  only  pretty  girls,  too.  What  luck!  And 
so  young;  the  last  forewoman  was  forty,  wasn't 
she?" 

"Rather  more." 

"What  a  position,  but  you  do  not  look  half 
pleased  enough." 

"You  don't,  Uncle." 

"I  did  not  grasp  it;  come  and  kiss  me,  little 
forewoman." 

There  was  more  talking  than  eating  during 
dinner,  and  then  Madiot  suggested  a  walk  through 
the  town.  He  was  eager  to  show  off  his  niece  to 
the  whole  world  on  such  a  day. 

"Dress  yourself  well,  and  wear  your  hat  with 
the  white  wings." 

"Where  are  we  going?" 

"To  hear  the  band  and  see  my  friends." 

They  sauntered  through  the  rich  parts  of  the 
town  in  their  Sunday  best.  Madiot  gave  his  arm 


186  REDEMPTION 

to  his  niece;  he  might  have  been  leading  her  to 
the  altar,  his  manner  was  so  serious;  it  was 
worthy  of  the  old-fashioned  silk  hat  and  curled 
moustache. 

Sometimes  he  bowed  to  people  standing  at 
their  shop  doors,  or  tried  to  catch  the  whispers  of 
the  passers-by. 

"Pretty  well  dressed,  quite  young  .  .  .  where 
are  they  off  to?" 

Where  indeed  but  to  Cambronne,  where  the 
regimental  band  was  playing  marches  and  lively 
mazurkas  under  the  elms.  They  mingled  with 
the  crowds  who  were  strolling  about,  or  sat  down 
among  the  groups  who  were  drinking  music  and 
dust  for  two  sous. 

He  was  convinced  that  everybody  was  staring 
at  her,  and  whispering  that  this  was  Mademoiselle 
Henriette  Madiot,  the  new  forewoman  at  Clem- 
ence's. 

He  stopped  once  or  twice  to  speak  to  some  old 
retired  army  or  navy  comrade,  and  after  the  cus- 
tomary cordial  greeting  which  he  never  forgot, 
he  hastened  to  introduce  his  niece  with  the  words: 
"Here  is  my  little  girl;  she  has  had  a  stroke  of 
luck;  she  has  been  made  forewoman." 

If  the  friend  did  not  understand,  he  added 
quickly:  " Forewoman  is  what  might  be  called  an 
adjutant  of  fashion,  do  you  understand?" 

And  if  his  friends  did  not,  it  was  of  little  con- 
sequence, so  that  he  might  speak  of  this  great 
happiness. 

"I  have  an  idea,"  he  said,  on  their  return 
home,  "we  ought  to  have  a  little  feast  on  your 


REDEMPTION  187 

return  from  Paris,  in  honour  of  your  promotion. 
It  is  a  pity  we  cannot  invite  Etienne  to  dinner." 

"Why  not  invite  Antoine,  Uncle?     He  will 
have  to  join  his  regiment  soon." 

The  old  soldier  hesitated:    "It  is  more  than 
five  years  since  he  dined  with  us,  but  perhaps  you  - 
are  right.    We  will  invite  him." 

Two  days  later  Henriette  went  to  Paris,  and 
Antoine  received  his  invitation. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 


ANTOINE  had  been  courting  Marie  Schwarz  since 
May.  He  had  the  easy  gallantry  of  the  work  shop, 
he  enjoyed  following  the  girls  coming  from  work, 
to  joke  with  them  all,  and  to  show  his  preference 
for  any  one  in  particular  by  catching  her  laugh- 
ingly round  the  waist,  while  the  rest  scattered 
screaming,  inwardly  jealous. 

He  was  an  assiduous  attendant  at  fairs,  village 
assemblies  in  Nantes,  or  balls  where  dancing  went 
on  under  the  trees  to  the  music  of  a  clarionet  or 
a  cornet.  He  frittered  away  the  profits  of  his 
skilled  labour  in  one  evening;  generous,  and  a 
fine  speaker,  he  had  great  success  among  the 
poorer  classes  where  gayety  is  rare.  When  his 
falsetto  solo  ceased,  cries  of  approval  came  from 
the  listening  groups.  In  contrast  to  his  love  of 
pleasure  the  foolish  fellow  had  a  melancholy  and 
haunting  desire  for  better  things,  like  the  home 
sickness  of  an  emigrant,  who  knows  that  he  can- 
not return  to  his  country.  He  was  the  last  of  a 
race  of  Plougastel  peasants,  transplanted  and  de- 
teriorated hewers  of  stone  and  cultivators  of 
strawberries  on  the  wind-swept  downs  by  the  sea. 
Easily  led  away  and  easily  corrupted  he  could  not 
forget  the  sad  airs  of  his  infancy.  No  Breton  is 
ever  completely  gay.  When  Antoine,  escorting 
Marie  down  the  Rue  Saint  Similieu,  said:  ''People 

188 


REDEMPTION  189 

think  I  am  madly  happy  because  I  laugh,  but  I 
have  sorrow  enough  and  to  spare,  Mademoiselle 
Marie,  like  yourself,"  he  did  not  lie.  The  mother 
who  bore  him  had  never  consoled  herself  for  her 
fault.  Throbbing  with  all  the  hatreds  of  the  work- 
ing-classes, he,  too,  inwardly  weeping,  cherished  a 
vague  regret  for  the  only  good  thing  his  ancestors 
had  possessed — a  family.  His  own  he  had  broken 
with,  and  it  was  classed  with  his  hatreds.  In  this 
way  he  felt  inferior  to  his  race,  and  to  many  of  his 
equals;  an  outcast  from  a  common  joy.  In  vain 
did  he  chaff  the  village  lads  and  tillers  of  the  soil ; 
he  was  one  of  them  but  ill  and  perverted.  If  he 
had  been  born  fifty  years  earlier,  or  if  his  grand- 
father had  not  sworn,  once  when  dazed  with 
drink,  to  leave  Plougastel,  Antoine  would  have 
been  a  peasant  shouldering  his  spade  at  the  close 
of  a  day's  work,  gazing  over  the  sea  between  beach 
and  field  with  his  heart  already  at  home  where  his 
wife  was  preparing  the  evening  meal. 

Breton  of  the  hard  soil,  his  stubbornness,  an 
untutored  form  of  fidelity,  proved  him  to  be  still, 
as  did  also  the  sudden  disgust  which  would  seize 
him  in  the  middle  of  an  orgie,  and  plunge  him  into 
a  fit  of  black  melancholy,  which  lasted  for  several 
days.  He  would  leave  his  companions  then  and 
wander  alone  along  the  quays,  his  slight  figure 
mingling  with  the  porters,  his  eyes  madly  staring  at 
things  and  men.  It  was,  however,  neither  remorse 
nor  madness,  it  was  just  dreams  of  an  ancient  peo- 
ple, dreams  of  a  race  rocked  by  the  waves,  which 
can  never  be  completely  imprisoned  by  city  walls. 

He  knew  when  to  laugh  and  when  to  say,  "I 


190  REDEMPTION 

suffer,"  and  thus  he  gained  control  over  the  soul 
of  the  desolate  girl,  whom  Fate  had  thrown  in  his 
path.  As  she  had  confessed  to  Henriette  the  two 
first  occasions  that  he  walked  home  with  her,  he 
had  chaffed  her.  The  second  time  Marie  refused 
his  escort,  and  he  never  volunteered  again,  but  he 
met  her. 

"I  am  like  you,"  he  said,  "one  whom  his  family 
has  rejected;  we  resemble  each  other  in  sadness." 
Then  she  listened  to  him. 

Gradually  it  became  a  habit  for  them  to  meet 
in  the  evening  at  the  corner  of  a  street.  As  Marie 
passed,  Antoine  would  step  from  a  doorway, 
where  he  had  been  waiting,  and  they  talked  for  a 
few  minutes,  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  a  wall.  He 
would  pull  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  Marie  would 
lift  a  corner  of  her  old  mantle,  to  hide  themselves 
from  the  chance  passers.  Often  they  merely  made 
a  few  remarks  about  the  day's  work.  Sometimes 
he  would  add:  "What  beautiful  hair  you  have, 
Marie."  But  his  look  caressed  her,  and  it  was  the 
passion  that  it  expressed  that  made  them  linger 
together,  and  which  haunted  Marie  when  the 
words  they  had  spoken  were  forgotten. 

One  August  evening,  the  last  late  night  at 
Clemence's,  Marie  Schwarz,  exhausted  with  hun- 
ger and  fatigue,  was  hurrying  home  to  her  room 
in  Rue  Saint  Similieu.  She  was  hardly  thinking  of 
Antoine,  because  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and 
when  he  came  out  of  the  dark  doorway  where  he 
had  been  waiting,  she  was  beyond  measure  dis- 
tressed. He  should  not  have  waited,  it  was  too 
much.  She  felt  herself  drawn  toward  the  wall. 


REDEMPTION  191 

"I  have  waited  here  two  hours,  waited,  because 
I  love  you,  Marie." 

It  was  one  of  his  hours  of  bitter  sadness.  He 
seized  her  hands,  and  his  lips  brushed  back  the 
thick,  black  hair,  which  had  become  partially 
uncoiled. 

"Marie,  Marie,  I  love  you  so,  that  if  it  were 
possible  you  should  be  my  wife." 

"  Don't  say  that,  leave  me,  don't  say  another 
word." 

"  Marie,  I  have  to  join  my  regiment.  Perhaps 
I  may  never  return.  I  have  only  two  months 
more  to  live.  Come  with  me." 

"Leave  me,  Antoine." 

She  struggled,  but  in  spirit  she  was  lost.  Had 
he  not  said,  "If  it  were  possible,  you  should  be 
my  wife?" 

She  freed  herself  and  moved  away,  with  a  look 
of  horror. 

"No,  no,  I  will  not.  It  would  be  the  ruin  of 
both.  Never  come  again,  never." 

But  he  did;  he  met  her  again.  The  night  he 
received  Madiot's  invitation  to  supper  he  met 
Marie  at  their  usual  meeting-place. 

She  was  already  conquered  and  that  evening 
her  last  support  had  failed.  She  had  not  seen 
Henriette  since  the  day  before,  she  would  not  see 
her  on  the  morrow  or  on  the  following  days. 

She  fell  weeping  on  Antoine's  shoulder,  and  let 
herself  be  led  away. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


So  Marie,  in  her  soul's  distress,  thought  of  Hen- 
riette,  and  cried  out  to  her. 

Other  thoughts  followed  the  traveller  that  night 
—the  regret  of  old  Madiot  and  of  some  of  the 
neighbours  deprived  of  their  evening  visit,  the 
anxious  thoughts  of  little  Reine,  who  secretly 
loved  the  forewoman;  of  Louise,  and,  above 
all,  of  Etienne.  More  prayers  were  sent  up  to 
heaven,  more  souls  yearned  toward  this  work- 
ing girl  leaving  her  people,  and  looked  for  her  re- 
turn, than  for  many  a  rich  person  setting  out 
from  home.  Unknown  tender  thoughts  crossing 
in  space. 

Seated  on  a  bench,  which  they  had  brought  out 
from  the  hut,  Etienne  and  his  mother  sat  watch- 
ing. They  were  waiting  for  Etienne's  father,  who 
was  spreading  his  nets.  The  children  slept.  The 
oxen  were  moving  in  the  moon-lit  meadows, 
gray,  indistinct  shapes  in  the  fog,  their  feet  mak- 
ing black  patches  on  the  grass,  white  with  dew. 
The  Loire  flowed  slowly  by  against  the  incoming 
tide,  shimmering  in  the  moonlight.  The  awaken- 
ing owls  hooted  in  the  poplar  trees. 

"What  else  can  you  expect,  poor  boy,"  said 
Mother  Loutrel,  her  hands  sheltered  under  her 
apron  from  the  chill  night  air,  her  eyes  fixed,  like 
Etienne's,  on  the  river;  "what  more  can  you  do? 

192 


REDEMPTION  193 

Girls  like  her  are  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking. 
She  told  you  to  have  patience." 

"If  only  there  was  some  hope,  Mother,  I  would 
be  patient  enough,  but  I  always  feel  that  she  will 
not  have  me." 

The  woman  bent  toward  him,  and  to  pacify 
him  adopted  the  voice  with  which  she  was  wont 
to  comfort  him  in  his  infancy. 

"Dear  Etienne,  don't  imagine  things;  I  be- 
lieve that  if  she  waits,  it  is  a  good  sign,  she  wants 
to  try  you." 

Silence  fell  upon  them,  a  silence  intensified  by 
the  peaceful  night. 

There  was  a  strong  resemblance  between  the 
mother  and  son,  both  came  of  a  fiery  race  and 
with  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  river  which  gave  them 
a  living,  the  expression  of  their  regular  features 
was  almost  identical.  But  there  was  something 
besides  grief  in  the  man's  face ;  energy  and  strong 
will  were  painted  there.  The  mother's  face  ex- 
pressed pity;  she  had  been  very  beautiful,  this 
fisherman's  wife,  and  she  knew  the  grief  that  un- 
requited love  can  cause. 

"When  you  pass  before  her  house  in  the  morn- 
ing, does  she  look  out?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Etienne,  "not  always,  but  she  was 
there  again  yesterday." 

"Can  you  see  her  eyes?    Don't  they  tell  tales?" 

Etienne  shook  his  head. 

"No,  Mother,  I  don't  see  her  eyes;  she  is  not 
near  enough.  I  can  only  see  a  white  figure  in  the 
window,  and  her  hands  when  she  leans  out,  and 
I  can  recognize  her  hair." 


194  REDEMPTION 

"Does  she  make  any  sign?" 

"  Neither  when  she  comes  nor  when  she  goes/' 
he  said,  again  shaking  his  head;  "she  is  like  a 
statue.  But  I  promised  not  to  persecute  her,  and 
I  turn  my  boat  round  as  though  I  expected 
nothing." 

Silence  again  fell  upon  them;  the  young  owls 
came  near,  invisible  in  the  darkness,  hooting  as 
they  pursued  their  prey. 

Etienne  was  the  first  to  speak,  his  voice  serious, 
but  trembling  with  youthful  eagerness : 

"I  will  wait  for  her;  but  after  Christmas,  as 
true  as  I  am  born,  I  will  go  to  her,  Mother,  I  will 
say  to  her:  'You  must  tell  me  all  to-day,  all;  this 
must  end,'  and  if  she  will  not  have  me ' 

He  extended  his  arm  slowly  over  the  moonlit 
river.  "  You  know  what  I  shall  do  then,"  he  said, 
"I  have  sworn  it." 

Their  mingled  sighs  troubled  the  night  air. 
The  mother  knew  her  son's  secrets,  but  to  hear 
him  renew  his  threat,  which  she  knew  he  would 
keep  if  Henriette  refused  him,  grieved  her  deeply. 
She  pictured  to  herself  the  loneliness  of  the  hut 
when  Etienne  had  left,  and  of  her  anguish  when 
the  wind  freshened  over  the  river  thinking  of  her 
four  sons  exposed  to  the  peril  of  the  sea. 

"If  only  it  were  not  she,"  she  said  almost 
harshly. 

These  words  silenced  them  both  for  more  than 
half  an  hour. 

The  meadows  had  become  so  brilliant  that  they 
seemed  to  be  covered  with  snow,  and  in  the  sur- 
rounding whiteness  the  Loire  stood  out  like  a 


REDEMPTION  195 

black  path,  with  one  ray  of  moonlight  thrown 
across  it.  On  the  opposite  bank,  coming  into  the 
light,  Etienne  made  out  a  moving  black  patch. 

"  Father's  boat,"  he  said,  rising. 

The  mother  and  son  moved  down  to  the  bank, 
two  tall  figures  bending  over  the  river  watching 
the  approaching  boat. 

"Only  speak  of  his  fish,  Etienne,"  the  mother 
murmured  as  the  boat  neared  the  bank,  "he  has 
enough  trouble.  To  know  trouble  in  advance  is 
the  mother's  part." 

The  little  owls,  still  invisible,  screamed  madly, 
hunting  for  field  mice. 


CHAPTER   XX. 


HENRIETTE  returned  after  six  days'  absence. 
Eloi  waited  for  her  at  the  station,  and  got  into  the 
cab  amid  a  stack  of  parcels  and  cardboard  boxes. 
They  drove  straight  to  Madame  Cle"mence's. 

"Be  quick,  little  girl,"  begged  Eloi  as  they 
reached  the  door,  "  dinner  is  cooking  at  Mere 
Logeret's.  Antoine  promised  to  come  at  seven.  We 
shall  be  three,  we  have  only  been  two  for  so  long." 

He  was  nervous  over  the  meeting,  yet  was  con- 
fident that  all  would  be  well. 

" Antoine  was  only  too  pleased,"  he  thought, 
"he  agreed  almost  at  once.  He  is  getting  to  be 
a  man,  he  will  shortly  join  his  regiment,  and  the 
Service  soon  makes  a  change  in  a  young  fellow. 
I  remember  that  I  could  think  of  nothing  else, 
two  months  before  joining." 

Madame  Logeret  had  prepared  a  stew  made  of 
chicken,  in  accordance  with  recipes  of  which  she 
jealously  kept  the  secret.  She  brought  it  in 
smoking  in  an  earthenware  saucepan.  When 
Henriette  reached  home  at  half-past  six  with  a 
bunch  of  flowers,  the  staircase  still  smelt  of  rose- 
mary, cloves,  and  fried  butter. 

"I  was  passing  Madame  Eglot's  shop,"  she  said, 
"and  really  I  felt  that  I  must  have  some  flowers 
for  my  dinner  party.  Aren't  they  pretty?" 

She  took  up  a  china  basket  and  arranged  her 

196 


REDEMPTION  197 

autumn  flowers,  among  ferns  still  moist  from  the 
woods.  She  placed  the  basket  on  the  table  close 
to  the  standing  lamp,  with  its  fine  cream-coloured 
shade,  which  lent  a  festive  air  to  Madiot's  room. 
In  her  own  room  she  dusted  and  arranged  on  a 
round  table  the  blue-flowered  tea  service,  which 
was  never  made  use  of. 

Antoine  arrived,  not  in  the  least  embarrassed 
apparently,  with  his  little  vague  laugh  and  shifty 
look,  which  always  avoided  other  people's  eyes. 

"Well,  your  room  is  not  in  the  least  changed, 
Uncle  Madiot.  You  are  not  in  the  swim,  I  see, 
not  even  an  advertisement.  With  us  the  poorest 
has  his  coloured  picture." 

Henriette  came  out  of  her  room  and  he  took 
the  hand  she  offered,  but  did  not  press  it.  The 
white  hand  stretched  out  with  a  sister's  greeting 
fell  coldly  by  her  side. 

"Well,  Henriette,  so  you  are  forewoman.  Con- 
gratulations !  I'll  bet  your  room  is  better  furnished 
than  Uncle  Madiot's." 

He  stepped  forward  and  put  his  head  round 
the  door. 

"I  thought  so.  What  luxury,  vases,  pictures, 
laces,  an  arm-chair!  I  remember  a  time  when  a 
little  apprentice  groped  her  way  to  bed  in  the 
dark  to  save  candle  ends." 

"And  I,  I  remember  a  brother  who  loved  me 
once,"  she  murmured  softly,  so  that  he  alone 
should  hear. 

"Don't  talk  of  that,"  he  replied,  curtly. 

He  turned  away  instantly  toward  his  uncle, 
who  invited  him  to  be  seated. 


198  REDEMPTION 

Henriette  followed:  "Will  it  be  always  the 
same,"  she  thought,  "what  on  earth  can  we  talk 
about  now,  not  to  anger  him." 

Conversation  began  nevertheless,  and  was  con- 
tinued almost  with  ease  and  gayety.  Madiot, 
though  not  a  model  of  diplomacy,  avoided  any 
subject  which  could  recall  the  past.  Round  that 
table  where  for  the  first  time  for  so  long  the  family 
was  grouped,  the  mother's  name  was  never  men- 
tioned, the  years  of  childhood  were  willingly  for- 
gotten. They  discussed  newspaper  and  town  gos- 
sip, politics  in  general  and  recent  strikes.  Old 
Eloi  laughed,  the  wine  had  made  him  jovial,  but 
his  nephew  sat  observant,  joked  but  did  not  smile 
nor  drink. 

At  last  Uncle  Madiot  filled  up  the  three  glasses 
and  lifted  his  own. 

"Your  health,  Antoine.  In  six  weeks  you  will 
be  in  barracks." 

The  young  workman  instantly  lost  his  look  of 
indifference,  and  bit  his  lips. 

"Yes,  unfortunately,  I  shall  have  to  go,"  he 
said,  gravely. 

"What  a  look,"  cried  Henriette,  who  was 
clearing  the  table,  "what  are  you  afraid  of?" 

She  tried  to  laugh. 

"Afraid  of  wanting  money?"  she  added,  "I  am 
sure  you  must  know,  however,  that  I  will  not 
forget  our  soldier,  especially  now  that  I  am  fore- 
woman." 

He  had  come  chiefly  for  fear  that  his  refusal 
might  mean  a  cessation  of  this  last  source  of  in- 
come, and  also  because  he  was  haunted  by  a 


REDEMPTION  199 

vague  terror,  instinctive  as  were  the  superstitious 
fears  of  his  ancestors. 

"No  doubt/'  he  said,  prompted  by  the  same 
terror,  "but  it  is  a  big  misfortune,  as  one  never 
knows  if  one  will  return." 

"What  an  idea,"  laughed  the  old  soldier,  "what 
should  happen  in  less  than  two  years,  why  do  you 
torment  yourself  with  these  ideas?" 

Antoine  was  silent. 

"Look  at  me,"  continued  his  uncle,  "fourteen 
years  of  service,"  and  he  threw  back  his  shoulders 
and  twisted  his  long  untidy  moustache. 

The  young  man  looked  at  him,  but  with  con- 
tempt. 

"You  were  a  simple  fellow,  Uncle  Madiot,"  he 
said,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

"Why?"  cried  the  old  man,  his  face  becoming 
stern. 

"They  trotted  you  about  from  one  end  of 
France  to  the  other,  and  then  off  to  the  Crimea, 
just  as  they  liked.  And  not  having  had  enough 
you  signed  for  another  seven  years." 

"Quite  so,  nor  do  I  regret  it,  and  I'll  swear  that 
it  was  fine,  all  our  campaigns — Inkerman,  the 
siege,  the  English  joining  us,  Palestro,  Magenta." 

"I  know,  but  what  did  you  get  from  it,"  threw 
in  the  young  fellow  insolently. 

"Get  from  it,  get  from  it " 

"One  sou  a  day,  eh?" 

"I  was  fed,  I  had  tobacco,  I  had — "  seeing  from 
Antoine's  mocking  laugh  that  he  was  getting  the 
worst  of  the  battle,  the  old  man  lost  his  temper. 

"I  do  not  argue  like  you,  blockhead.    I  served 


200  REDEMPTION 

with  my  comrades,  not  for  money,  but  for  honour, 
for  pleasure." 

"Be  grateful,  if  it  so  pleases  you,  Uncle,  they 
took  the  best  of  your  life,  prevented  you  from 
being  your  own  master,  from  having  a  profession, 
from  having  a  family,  from  having  even  a  purse 
with  something  in  it.  Thank  them,  it's  your  own 
business,  but  the  men  of  to-day  are  made  of  dif- 
ferent stuff." 

"So  I  see,  cowards." 

"Cry  out,  if  you  like,  you  will  not  change  it. 
The  men  of  to-day  will  not  be  led  about  like  you. 
I  warn  you,  soon  it  will  have  to  be  abolished." 

"What?" 

"The  army." 

Eloi  Madiot  drew  himself  up.  He  threw  his 
body  before  the  door  with  a  movement  suddenly 
come  back  to  him  from  his  old  profession,  as 
though  he  feared  some  one  would  enter,  as  though 
he  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  adjutant  for  the 
week  coming  to  avenge  such  blasphemy.  Then 
his  eyes,  terrible  as  those  of  a  soldier  going  into 
action,  turned  on  his  nephew,  who  had  denounced 
the  army.  He  did  not  speak,  but  his  eyes  spoke  for 
him.  Between  him  and  the  miserable  youth,  the 
fourteen  years  of  his  life  in  war  and  barracks 
rolled  in  confusion.  There  passed  before  him 
visions  of  his  comrades,  drawn  up  in  ranks,  shoul- 
dering their  arms;  of  the  officers  he  had  loved; 
music  sounding  through  cathedral  domes;  flying 
flags;  bayonet  charges;  drinking  bouts  after  vic- 
tories; garrison  towns;  the  mess;  all  the  glory, 
all  the  careless  joy  of  the  service.  Visions  of  it 


REDEMPTION  201 

all  rushed  through  his  troubled  brain.  For  the 
moment  the  old  soldier  became  the  incarnation  of 
the  old  army,  of  a  by-gone  indignant  people;  a 
whole  past  of  humble  courage  rose  under  the  insult. 

" Silence,"  he  cried,  "silence,  or  I'll  strike  you/' 
and  he  brought  down  his  undamaged  fist  with  a 
thud  on  the  table. 

Antoine,  pale  but  master  of  himself,  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  raised  his  pointed  chin  in  the  air. 

"And  then?"  he  questioned. 

His  uncle  seemed  about  to  fall  upon  him,  when 
Henriette  ran  forward  and  seized  his  hand. 

"Antoine  is  joking,  Uncle,"  she  said,  "don't 
you  see,  let  him  alone." 

She  watched  them  eagerly,  standing  trembling 
between  the  two  men  who  defied  each  other.  An- 
toine neither  changed  expression  nor  lowered  his 
eyes,  but  the  old  man  who  felt  the  girl's  hand 
tremble  endeavoured  to  regain  command  of  him- 
self, and  to  obey  her  request. 

"You're  right,  Henriette,"  he  said,  his  voice 
still  shaking  with  anger,  "he  will  get  over  it; 
when  he  wears  the  uniform,  he  will  be  compelled 
to  obey — he,  Antoine!" 

"You  don't  know  your  nephew,  Uncle,"  the 
latter  sniggered;  "if  our  officers  are  pleasant,  per- 
haps I  may,  but  if  they  are  not — "  he  snapped  his 
fingers,  "Heavens,  I'll  teach  them!" 

Eloi  Madiot  was  secretly  alarmed  by  the 
strange  expression  on  his  nephew's  face,  he  had 
seen  the  insolent  look  in  others,  in  troopers,  who 
had  ended  in  the  African  battalions.  He  made 
no  answer. 


202  REDEMPTION 

"Look  here,  Antoine,  I  did  not  mean  to  tell 
you,  but  since  you  defy  your  officers,  I  can  assure 
you  there  will  be  one  at  least,  who  will  be  anxious 
to  protect  you,"  threw  in  Henriette. 

"Who?" 

"He  is  only  a  Reserve  officer,  but  in  January 
he  is  to  be  transferred  to  your  regiment.  I  will 
make  his  mother  speak  to  him;  she  is  sure  to  do 
so;  you  guess  whom  I  mean?" 

"No." 

"Monsieur  Victor  Lemarie." 

Antoine  sprang  up.  "Do  you  mean  to  do  that, 
Henriette?" 

"Yes,  to  please  you.  What's  the  matter?" 
She  stepped  back  alarmed  at  his  face,  which  was 
livid  with  rage. 

"You  would,  would  you.  Well,  tell  him  then 
that  he  had  better  not  meddle  with  me,  nor  give 
me  orders,  nor  come  too  near  me,  or  there  will  be 
a  tragedy.  Tell  him,  tell  him —  Good  God " 

He  seized  his  hat  and  rushed  wildly  from  the 
room. 

Madiot  and  Henriette  shrinking  together  against 
the  wall  were  silent  for  a  time.  Henriette  was 
dazed  and  grief-stricken,  but  her  uncle  had  a  dif- 
ferent cause  for  distress,  the  explosion  of  fury  had 
suddenly  brought  home  to  him  the  fact  that  An- 
toine knew  something  of  the  past. 

He  was  terrified  to  think  that  such  a  secret  was 
shared,  and  by  whom?  He  saw  his  Henriette  ex- 
posed to  danger,  to  the  vengeance  of  a  wretch  like 
Antoine,  who  could  torture  and  break  her;  who 
might  also  obtain  a  mastery  over  her  by  holding 


REDEMPTION  203 

out  the  perpetual  threat  of  dragging  up  the  old 
shame  and  making  a  scandal.  Every  other 
thought  was  effaced  by  the  anguish  of  this;  he 
forgot  personal  insults,  abuse  of  the  army,  every- 
thing but  the  one  tormenting  thought.  Henri- 
ette  in  danger,  a  danger  that  he  could  not  avert, 
and  from  which  he  must  save  her.  His  brain  was 
on  fire.  "Must  I  run  after  him?"  he  thought. 
"Will  it  happen  to-morrow  or  when?  I  must  dis- 
cover how  much  he  guesses,  and  forbid  him  to 
speak — forbid  him,  Antoine  Madiot!" 

His  face  buried  in  his  hands  he  brooded  over 
his  sorrow. 

"Can  you  explain  to  me  what  was  the  matter 
with  him?"  said  Henriette  interrupting  his  dream. 
"Why  was  he  so  angry?  Was  it  against  me  or 
Monsieur  Lemarie"?" 

Her  uncle  seemed  to  awake  from  a  nightmare. 
He  made  an  effort  to  hide  his  anxiety,  so  as  to 
give  some  colour  of  truth  to  what  he  was  about  to 
say. 

"Don't  be  so  alarmed,  little  girl,"  he  began, 
"I  ought  to  have  remembered  that  it  is  impossible 
to  talk  sense  to  Antoine;  you  see  he  is  still  furious 
with  the  Lemaries,  because  of  the  question  of  my 
pension." 

"Now  that  the  matter  is  settled  it  would  be 
folly.  Now  there  is  something  else,  that  we  do  not 
know  of,  something  more  serious." 

Her  eyes  followed  him  as  he  went  over  to  the 
window  and  leaned  upon  the  ledge.  He  dared  not 
move  for  fear  of  being  compelled  again  to  lie. 

Henriette,  however,  did  not  speak  again.    She 


204  REDEMPTION 

put  on  an  apron  and  began  to  wash  up  the  dinner 
things.  This  task  was  to  her  the  most  distasteful 
of  all  housework,  but  to-night  she  never  gave  a 
thought  to  it.  Her  mind  was  far  away  trying  to 
solve  an  impossible  riddle. 

When  she  had  put  away  the  china  in  the  side- 
board, she  went  into  her  room  to  brush  her  hair, 
to  wash  and  scent  her  hands  to  become  once  more 
a  fashionable  lady.  Then  she  cleared  away  the 
blue-flowered  tea  service,  and  replaced  the  chairs 
that  she  had  arranged  near  the  round  table,  and 
which  were  no  longer  needed. 

In  the  other  room  Madiot,  crouching  near  the 
window,  mad  with  his  secret  sorrow,  kept  repeat- 
ing: " Supposing  he  should  betray  her";  and 
Henriette,  not  suspecting  the  danger,  asked  her- 
self: "What  is  the  matter?  Why  was  Antoine  so 
infuriated,  and  why  has  my  uncle  forgotten  me 
this  evening?  " 


CHAPTER    XXI. 


IMMEDIATELY  on  entering  the  work  shop  next  day, 
Henriette  looked  round  for  Marie,  whom  she  had 
not  seen  since  her  departure.  All  the  girls,  with 
the  exception  of  Marie,  crowded  round  her  for 
news. 

"  Good-morning,  Mademoiselle  Henriette,  you 
look  tired.  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  journey? 
Tell  us  about  your  visit  to  Reboux,  and  to  Esther 
Meyer's.  Are  the  models  pretty  this  year?" 

After  answering  them  all  Henriette  went  up  to 
Marie,  who,  seated  at  the  end  of  the  table  near 
the  light,  seemed  to  concentrate  her  mind  on 
each  stitch. 

"Well,  Marie,  don't  you  mean  to  say  good- 
rnorning?" 

Marie  lifted  her  eyes  which  gave  no  sign  of 
pleasure,  and  instantly  lowered  them  again. 

" Good-morning,"  she  said;  "are  you  well'?' 

"There,"  said  Henriette,  gently,  "I  did  well  to 
come  home.  Here  is  my  friend  Marie  unable  to 
get  along  without  me,  and  plunged  in  melancholy." 

Marie  made  no  answer. 

"Will  you  come  to  Reine's  with  me  on  Sunday?  " 

"No,  I  cannot,"  answered  Marie,  continuing  to 
sew. 

"You  are  engaged?" 

"Yes." 

205 


206  REDEMPTION 

"You  shall  tell  me  about  it,"  answered  Henri- 
ette,  moving  away. 

Her  friend's  depression,  however,  had  awak- 
ened her  suspicions.  Many  times  during  the  day 
she  looked  toward  Marie,  but  without  succeeding 
in  meeting  her  eyes,  with  the  exception  of  once  or 
twice  when  it  seemed  to  her  that  they  were  as  sad 
and  as  expressive  of  inward  tragedy  as  on  the  first 
day  when  the  unknown  girl  had  come  up  the 
staircase  with  the  question:  "There  is  no  va- 
cancy, is  there?" 

She  could  not  speak  to  her  in  the  evening  be- 
cause Madame  Clemence  detained  her  as  the  em- 
ployees were  leaving. 

"To-morrow,"  she  thought,  "I  will  find  time  to 
walk  home  with  her  and  discover  what  is  wrong." 

But  on  the  morrow  Marie  did  not  come,  and  no 
one  had  been  given  a  message  from  her. 

"Was  she  ill;  did  she  complain  of  anything 
these  last  few  days?"  asked  Henriette  of  Reine, 
who  was  more  intimate  with  Marie  than  the  rest. 

Reine  answered  no,  but  her  pale  cheeks  reddened 
as  she  spoke,  and  Henriette  was  alarmed.  She 
was  more  anxious  still  the  next  day,  when  she 
reached  the  shop  and  found  that  Marie,  usually 
the  first,  had  not  yet  come.  The  room  was  de- 
serted as  Henriette  opened  her  drawer  and  slowly 
took  out  her  things.  The  weather  was  appalling. 
' '  Perhaps  she  is  detained  by  the  dreadful  weather," 
thought  Henriette;  "she  lives  far  away." 

The  apprentice  entered,  then  Mathilde,  Lucie, 
Jeanne,  Reine,  Irma,  all  but  Marie.  Nine  o'clock 
struck.  The  noise  of  the  opening  door,  the  foot- 


REDEMPTION  207 

steps  on  the  boards,  the  murmurs  of:  "What 
dreadful  weather,"  the  stools  being  pulled  up  to 
the  table,  all  the  different  noises  of  the  morning 
arrivals  ceased.  Whisperings  and  work  com- 
menced, but  Marie's  place  was  empty. 

Madame  Clemence's  employees  also  remarked 
Marie's  absence.  Some  knew  the  reason — what 
don't  they  know — but  they  confined  themselves  to 
saying:  "Twice  again  this  week,  but  perhaps  she 
has  sent  an  excuse."  Meaning  looks  passed  be- 
tween some  of  them,  but  they  knew  the  fore- 
woman's friendship  for  the  girl  too  well  to  talk. 
Rain  lashed  the  windows,  and  the  wind  howled 
furiously  down  the  chimney. 

Henriette  was  sick  with  anxiety  and  could  not 
touch  her  dinner.  She  longed  for  the  end  of  the 
day's  work,  to  be  able  to  run  to  Marie's  lodging, 
to  knock  at  the  door,  calling  her  name. 

But  as  the  autumn  season  had  brought  many 
orders,  work  was  continued  until  past  half-past 
seven.  Henriette  left  her  friends  at  the  shop 
door,  and  on  account  of  the  squall  went  up  the 
street  instead  of  along  the  quays. 

The  rain  soaked  her  skirts,  the  wind  lashed  the 
puddles  into  foam.  The  streets  were  deserted 
but  for  the  drivers  crouching  on  their  boxes,  who 
stared  after  her,  the  rain  streaming  from  theif 
hats.  Henriette  walked  at  breathless  speed,  and 
plunged  into  the  poor  quarter  of  the  town.  She 
hurried  through  the  Place  Bretagne  and  on  to  the 
Place  Marchix,  which  was  changed  into  a  lake 
with  old  houses  on  its  banks.  The  street  lamps 
were  all  but  extinguished  by  the  tempest.  An- 


208  REDEMPTION 

toine  lived  at  the  farther  end  of  the  place  on  the 
right.  "Is  it  possible  that  it  is  he,  my  brother, 
who  has  ruined  her?"  thought  Henriette,  who 
guessed  the  truth.  Brooding  over  the  matter  she 
remembered  that,  when  at  dinner  the  other  night, 
she  had  mentioned  Marie's  name  Antoine  looked 
embarrassed.  This  sign,  added  to  others  of  the 
past,  almost  convinced  her  of  his  guilt.  "And  it 
was  through  me  that  she  met  him!"  she  thought. 
Presently  she  stopped  short  and  looked  up  at  a 
window  under  the  roof  in  which  a  small  light 
twinkled.  The  light  gave  some  hope,  he  was 
there,  he  had  not  gone  out.  Henriette  retraced 
her  steps,  hurried  in  the  pouring  rain  to  the  Rue 
Saint-Similieu,  and  dived  into  a  doorway,  where 
the  wind  howled  like  the  siren  of  a  steamer.  She 
groped  her  way  up  the  staircase,  suddenly  seized 
with  fear  at  being  alone,  frightened,  too,  at  being 
so  near  to  the  secret  she  sought  to  discover.  There 
was  no  sound  but  that  made  by  her  fingers 
against  the  wall  as  she  vainly  tried  to  find  the 
door.  At  last  she  drew  herself  together  and  called 
"Marie." 

Her  voice  was  drowned  by  the  wind. 

"Marie." 

She  heard  footsteps  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door,  a  shaft  of  light  fell  on  the  staircase,  the  door 
opened,  Henriette  caught  sight  of  Marie  and  went 
forward,  her  sodden  garments  clinging  about  her. 
The  other  recoiled,  extending  her  hand,  as  though 
to  ward  off  her  approach. 

"You  ought  not  to  have  come.  Do  not  touch 
me,  do  not  come  near  me." 


REDEMPTION  209 

Henriette  stopped,  dazed.  Her  friend  was 
leaning  on  the  table  which  held  the  lamp  they 
had  bought  together  one  happy  day.  She  was 
dressed  in  new  clothes,  ready  to  go  out.  She 
looked  almost  elegant,  with  a  large  black  hat 
trimmed  with  bright  red  feathers,  an  embroid- 
ered collar,  high-heeled  shoes,  and  silk  umbrella. 
She  stood  upright,  pale  and  resolute. 

"I  ran  here,  Marie,  as  soon  as  my  work  was 
done.  I  did  not  believe " 

"  That  it  was  true?   Well  it  is." 

Henriette  mastered  her  grief.  She  advanced 
a  little  to  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"Marie,"  she  said  gently,  as  though  speaking  to 
a  younger  sister,  "tell  me  that  it  is  just  a  mo- 
ment's folly.  We  are  friends;  take  off  your 
mantle;  let  me  sit  down  and  talk." 

But  Marie  recoiled.  Her  sombre  eyes  shone 
like  cold  steel:  passion  had  chased  all  tenderness 
from  them. 

"No,"  she  said,  coldly,  "I  am  no  longer  worthy 
of  you.  Go  away." 

' '  Listen  to  me,  and  then  I  will  leave ;  and  I  will 
never  come  back  unless  you  want  me." 

"No,  nothing  you  can  say  will  be  of  use." 

She  crossed  her  arms,  and  leaned  forward  a  little. 
The  light  from  the  lamp  accentuated  the  angry 
smile  on  her  lips. 

"It  is  over,  do  you  understand?  I  have  had 
enough  of  misery,  and  enough  of  your  virtues. 
I  believe  in  nothing.  I  have  not  long  to  live,  and 
I  will  enjoy  life.  I  am  an  unfortunate.  He  or 
another,  what  odds?" 


210  REDEMPTION 

She  hesitated,  and  then  added:  "I  must  go, 
he  is  waiting." 

Henriette  threw  out  her  hands  as  though  to 
stop  her. 

"But  don't  you  know  him?" 

"Better  than  you,  who  hate  him." 

"He  has  deceived  you;  he  has  to  join  his  regi- 
ment." 

"I  know." 

"He  promised  to  marry  you,  and  you  believed 
him?" 

"No." 

' '  Not  even  that !    Not  even  that ! " 

Henriette  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
began  to  sob,  but  Marie  drew  herself  up,  her  arms 
crossed,  and  defying  life,  death,  and  the  neigh- 
bours, who  might  hear:  "I  love  him!"  she  cried. 

Sobs  were  her  answer;  then  Henriette  dropped 
her  hands,  drew  back,  and  gazed  at  Marie.  She 
moved  away  slowly,  the  lamplight  shone  on  her 
pale  tear-stained  face,  on  the  golden  tresses  that 
the  wind  had  blown  across  her  face.  For  one 
minute  she  leaned  against  the  doorway,  she  was 
pity  personified  lingering  to  the  end.  She  van- 
ished into  the  dark  night,  it  was  as  though  re- 
morse had  vanished  with  her. 

"Nine  o'clock  at  night." 

"I  did  not  think  I  could  suffer  so  through  her," 
wrote  Henriette  in  her  gray-covered  diary,  "or 
that  I  could  so  love  her.  We  are  separated,  she 
has  fallen,  and  has  driven  me  away.  I,  who  had 
hoped  to  make  of  her  an  honest  woman.  I,  who 


REDEMPTION  211 

in  my  dreams,  would  be  fitting  on  her  her  white 
wedding  dress.  Poor  lost  sister!  Even  now  I  feel 
that  had  I  known  you,  when  quite  small,  you 
would  not  have  pushed  aside  my  hand.  I  was  not 
strong  enough,  and  she  has  been  too  miserable. 
Worn  with  hard  work,  having  nothing  to  live  on, 
when  one  is  tempted — and  there  is  no  restraining 
force — there  comes  a  day  when  one  remembers 
that  one  is  a  woman,  and  farewell  to  all  the  rest." 
Henriette  stopped  writing.  She  was  alone  in 
her  room,  exhausted  with  fatigue,  listening  to  the 
rain  lashing  the  windows.  An  inexplicable  un- 
easiness took  hold  of  her.  One  cannot  without 
danger  come  in  contact  with  unrepentant  sin. 
For  three  days  she  had  brooded  too  much  over 
this  bad  dream,  and  in  spite  of  herself  all  the 
temptations  of  her  hard  life  flashed  upon  her. 
She  felt  the  stinging  of  all  the  glances  fixed  on  her 
since  she  was  of  an  age  to  be  insulted,  that  is  to 
say,  since  she  started  as  an  apprentice  years  ago, 
her  basket  on  her  arm  and  linen  bonnet  on  her 
head.  The  covetous  eyes  of  youth,  mature  men, 
and  of  old  men  who  follow  children,  embraced  her. 
She  heard  again  the  whispered  remarks  thrown 
at  her  in  the  streets,  the  dishonest  proposals  of 
employers  and  shopkeepers.  She  re-read  the  let- 
ters offering  to  buy  herwork shops  andshowrooms. 
She  was  obsessed  as  these  pitfalls  multiplied 
around  her,  and  that  she  usually  avoided  without 
a  thought,  obsessed  by  the  indefatigable  persecu- 
tion which  never  tires,  and  is  never  discouraged. 
The  world  appeared  to  her  in  all  its  brutal  ugli- 
ness, seeking  the  ruin  of  the  weak,  the  poor,  those 


212  REDEMPTION 

whose  youth  should  at  least  protect  them,  and 
who  should  not  have  to  defend  themselves,  when 
already  they  had  so  much  to  suffer.  She  felt  that 
misgiving  of  one's  self,  which  helps  one  to  pardon 
others. 

"Oh,  my  God,"  she  cried,  " grant  that  I  may 
not  fall  myself." 

She  was  afraid;  she  tried  to  escape  from  the  evil 
thoughts  which  surround  a  knowledge  of  sin. 

What  shelter  could  she  find?  Who  would  de- 
fend her  from  these  ideas  which  suddenly  haunted 
her? 

She  took  refuge  in  a  dream  of  past  years,  when 
her  mother  lived,  and  kept  her  close  to  her  side, 
sheltering  her  frailty.  She  made  an  effort  to  keep 
before  her  eyes  the  faces  of  young  girls  now  hap- 
pily married,  whose  example  would  help  her  to 
combat  these  nightmare  visions.  Then  rising 
from  the  table  she  opened  the  glass  doors  of  her 
little  bookcase,  and  took  from  it  a  prayer-book 
given  her  by  the  Sisters  at  school.  A  yellow  piece 
of  paper  marked  a  favourite  passage  of  her  youth, 
and  which  she  had  not  read  for  a  long  time. 
These  were  praises  addressed  to  virgins,  canticles 
which  portrayed  the  triumph  of  the  spirit  over  the 
flesh.  She  read  on  remembering  the  phrases,  ex- 
periencing again  the  emotion  they  had  awakened, 
at  an  age  when  she  barely  understood  their  mean- 
ing. Once  more  the  same  joy  in  exceeding  purity 
that  she  felt  as  a  child,  the  same  uplifting  of  the 
soul.  But  it  was  no  longer  the  same  silent  flight 
of  thought.  As  she  rose  she  held  out  a  hand  to 
Marie.  "  I  will  raise  you,  my  friend,"  she  thought, 


REDEMPTION  213 

"I  shall  see  you  in  every  little  girl  in  my  parish, 
and  love  her  for  you;  if  you  had  only  had  my 
jealously  guarded  childhood,  had  you  learned  the 
lessons  I  was  taught,  had  you  but  had  my  moth- 
er," she  said,  closing  the  book  that  was  a  relic  of 
her  childhood. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


THE  separation  had  left  a  cruel  wound.  Hen- 
riette  had  become  profoundly  attached  to  Marie 
during  the  months  of  their  friendship.  She  felt, 
since  the  rupture  with  her,  as  though  all  her  friends 
were  lost.  In  vain  were  Heine's  attentions,  in 
vain  the  good  humour  with  which  her  comrades 
accepted  the  rule  of  the  new  forewoman ;  Henriette 
felt  a  void  which  they  could  not  fill.  She  could 
not  get  accustomed  to  the  new  girl,  whom  Madame 
Clemence  had  engaged  in  the  place  of  Marie,  dis- 
charged after  three  days'  absence.  She  re- 
proached herself  for  the  severity  with  which  she 
treated  the  young  girl,  who  would  sometimes  look 
at  her  in  wonder,  as  though  to  say:  "Why  do 
you,  who  are  so  kind,  treat  me  differently  from 
others?" 

A  slow  and  deep  transformation  was  taking 
place  in  Henriette.  The  last  incident  in  her  life 
had  made  her  vividly  conscious  of  human  misery. 
The  heart  was  more  open  to  pity.  Instead  of 
seeking  consolation  in  Etienne's  love,  she  sought 
it  in  self-forgetf ulness.  Instinctively  she  threw 
herself  among  the  multitude  of  poor  and  sufferers 
around  her,  as  though  not  made  for  the  love  of 
one,  but  for  the  love  of  the  nameless,  the  unloved, 
the  obscure  outcast  in  the  crowd.  Already,  al- 
most before  aware  of  it,  and  long  before  she  knew 

214 


REDEMPTION  215 

Etienne's,  she  had  received  the  love  of  those 
whom  no  one  loves.  They  had  protected  her 
from  the  life  that  engulfs  others;  they  had  pro- 
cured for  her  the  joy  of  the  feeling  of  use,  of  being 
charitable,  of  being  paid  with  gratitude's  tears. 
Now  she  felt  drawn  powerfully  toward  them, 
though  perhaps  the  attraction  was  neither  undi- 
vided nor  permanent. 

On  Sundays,  when  she  did  not  go  out  with 
Uncle  Eloi,  she  spent  an  hour  or  two  among  her 
parish  friends,  under  the  trees  of  the  avenue  of 
Saint  Anne,  where  the  autumn  sun  had  brought 
many  women  and  children.  They  no  longer 
feared,  they  had  adopted  her.  Or  otherwise  she 
went  to  see,  on  their  account,  the  old  priest,  whose 
garden  gave  on  to  the  Rue  de  la  Hautiere,  to  speak 
of  their  common  clients. 

Sometimes,  however,  a  remembrance  or  a  meet- 
ing threw  her  impetuously  into  other  dreams. 
One  morning,  during  her  walk  from  home  to  the 
shop,  she  was  following  behind  an  affectionate 
couple,  humble  people  like  herself,  whose  unique 
possession  was  their  youth.  Merely  from  seeing 
them  Henriette  became  troubled  with  dreams  of 
love,  such  as  are  born  in  spring,  of  the  caressing 
breeze  or  the  perfume  of  budding  May  trees. 

"I  will  say  'yes'  to  Etienne,"  she  then  thought, 
"and  we  will  wander  like  them  down  the  paths  of 
joy,  envied  by  the  passers-by."  These  impulses 
of  youth  faded,  and  it  was  enough  for  Henriette 
to  find  herself  with  the  infirm  Marcelle  Esnault, 
or  Vivien,  or  any  of  the  poor  wretches  it  was  her 
task  to  console,  and  to  see  them  smile.  "I  can 


216  REDEMPTION 

never  leave  you;  you  are  my  life,"  she  would 
say,  deep  down  in  her  soul. 

Eloi  Madiot  had  need  of  her  comfort  more  than 
all  others,  of  her  consolation  in  his  sorrow.  It 
seemed  as  if  her  only  grief  was  the  distress  of 
others.  He  was  overcome  by  the  discovery  he 
had  made,  and  incapable  of  coming  to  a  decision. 
The  idea  of  having  a  complete  explanation  with 
Antoine  terrified  him.  The  weeks  went  by,  and 
still  he  put  it  off.  He  accused  himself  of  coward- 
ice, but  took  no  action.  Henriette,  seeing  him  more 
taciturn  than  usual,  hesitated  to  believe  that  age 
alone  accounted  for  the  change.  "Why  don't 
you  confide  in  me?"  she  said;  "you  are  in  grief, 
am  I  not  here  to  listen?  "  But  he  gave  no  answer. 

In  the  latter  half  of  November,  a  few  days  be- 
fore the  departure  of  the  conscripts,  Eloi  decided 
to  go  through  with  the  business.  He  waited  for 
his  nephew  outside  the  work  shop. 

"Listen,  Antoine,"  he  said.  "I  was  angry  the 
other  night  because  you  attacked  the  army,  but 
you  must  not  leave  like  this.  The  day  before  you 
go  is  a  holiday.  What  do  you  say  to  my  calling 
for  you,  and  we'll  drink  together?" 

The  astonished  young  man,  suspicious  as  usual, 
hesitated  before  answering. 

"If  you  don't  speak  of  Monsieur  Lemarie*,"  he 
said  at  last,  "I  have  no  objection." 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 


SINCE  eight  in  the  morning  Eloi  Madiot  had  been 
making  a  tour  of  the  cabarets,  to  celebrate  An- 
toine's  entry  into  the  army.  The  conscripts  were 
to  be  at  La  Roche-sur-Yon  on  the  morrow;  An- 
toine  and  his  comrades,  therefore,  were  to  leave 
by  a  night  train. 

It  was  mid-day.  Uncle  and  nephew  had  called 
at  the  Croix  de  Fer,  an  old  inn  near  the  ruins  of 
the  Lemarie  Works,  then  on  to  a  cabaret  in  the 
district  of  Mauves,  "a  famous  place,"  said  Eloi, 
"where  they  have  a  muscadet  which  makes  you 
dance  only  to  look  at  it."  He  was  dancing  even 
before  seeing  it,  as  a  result  of  the  fresh  wind  and 
wine.  He  was  celebrating  this  entry  into  the 
army  according  to  traditions,  which  he  consid- 
ered glorious,  and  which  made  it  almost  a  military 
duty  to  make  the  last  day  one  of  riot  and  drunk- 
enness. He  spoke  loud,  telling  anecdotes  of  an 
army  no  longer  in  existence,  citing  names  long 
forgotten  of  officers  he  had  known,  and  villages 
where  he  had  camped.  He  drew  his  puny,  unre- 
sponsive nephew  along  with  his  left  arm,  still  stiff 
from  his  wound.  By  his  gayety,  the  old  man 
seemed  the  younger  of  the  two,  his  head,  with  its 
reddened  face  and  white  hair,  rolled  from  side  to 
side  on  his  broad  shoulders.  In  passing  before 
the  vegetable  sellers,  sitting  among  their  baskets 

217 


218  REDEMPTION 

which  formed  a  green  nest,  he  looked  down  on  the 
soft  hat  which  brushed  his  shoulder  with  a  dis- 
dainful smile,  as  though  saying,  "Here  is  a  con- 
script of  to-day.  Is  he  like  me?  See,  my  beauties, 
what  we  were  and  what  we  are." 

His  nephew,  his  little  ferret  eyes  as  untroubled 
as  usual,  let  himself  be  led  along.  Presently  they 
made  their  way  back  through  the  town,  but  not 
knowing  why,  with  no  appetite  for  lunch,  but 
wishing  to  rest  themselves,  entered  the  Sept 
Freres  Tranquilles,  in  the  Rue  Saint-Similieu. 
Eloi,  with  his  face  to  the  light,  continued  to  talk 
with  animation,  but  his  face  was  no  longer  expres- 
sive. His  mind  moved  with  difficulty,  his  mouth 
alone  moved;  his  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  drunken 
stare.  Antoine,  leaning  against  the  wall,  did  not 
drink.  Seated  by  a  marble  table,  the  two  men 
occasionally  lifted  a  glass  of  bad  absinthe  with  the 
words,  "Your  health,"  but  only  the  old  man 
opened  his  mouth  to  try  and  drink,  and  each  time 
drops  of  green  liquid  ran  down  his  chin  on  to  his 
beard,  and  made  him  smart  as  though  it  were 
fire,  which  irritated  and  excited  him  as  much  as 
what  he  had  drunk. 

The  room  was  full  of  steam  from  a  boiling  pot 
of  stew.  The  other  customers  were  eating  at  ta- 
bles in  the  front  part  of  the  room.  None  seemed 
to  hear  the  conversation  which  was  becoming  ani- 
mated, Eloi  Madiot's  deep  chant  mixing  with 
Antoine's  falsetto.  The  servant  only,  a  tall,  red- 
haired,  indolent  girl,  seated  near  the  window  so  that 
the  sun  fell  on  her  hair,  looked  from  the  corner  of 
her  eyes  at  the  young  man,  who  was  known  to  her. 


REDEMPTION  219 

"In  my  days,"  said  the  uncle,  "we  were  more 
gay  the  last  day.  You  don't  look  like  a  conscript." 

"I  have  told  you  my  opinion,  Uncle;  I  don't 
change  it  from  day  to  day.  I  have  to  join  the 
regiment,  worse  luck." 

He  finished  his  speech  with  a  toss  of  the  head 
which  seemed  to  say,  "I  shall  be  thinking  the 
whole  time  how  to  get  off,  and  will  make  any 
means  serve  my  purpose." 

"You'll  see,"  continued  the  old  man,  who 
could  not  resist  giving  advice,  and  who  was  too 
drunk  to  notice  the  cold  wrath  of  Antoine's 
speech,  "just  get  the  theory  into  your  head,  and 
obey  your  chiefs,  and  watch  what  the  others  do. 
Not  too  much  drinking  in  the  army,  and  not  too 
many  women.  The  officers  don't  like  the  soldiers 
to  have  a  wife  in  town.  If  you  have  a  little 
friend,  Antoine,"  he  said,  winking,  "don't  take  her 
with  you." 

The  poor  man  thought  his  nephew  was  laugh- 
ing, whereas  he  shuddered.  The  shaft  had  struck 
deep,  for  he  loved  the  unhappy  girl  whom  he  was 
leaving.  His  uncle  attempted  to  laugh,  and 
thought  the  moment  opportune  for  the  long- 
postponed  question. 

"You  have  a  bad  temper,  Antoine,  but  all  the 
same  I  am  sure  you  want  to  be  an  honour  to  the 
family." 

"The  family?"  hissed  his  nephew. 

"Yes,  the  family,  your  sister  and  me!" 

"Don't  try  to  hoodwink  me,  I  know  my  fam- 
ily, and  I  know  that  I  have  been  robbed,  robbed, 
robbed;  do  you  understand?" 


220  REDEMPTION 

Antoine  leaned  over  the  table  toward  his  uncle, 
who  made  a  sign  with  his  damaged  hand:  "Not 
so  loud,  not  so  loud."  He  could  hear  the  cus- 
tomers turn  to  listen.  The  red-haired  servant 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  laughing. 

"You  mustn't  fight,  you  two,"  she  cried. 

But  the  young  man  was  carried  away  by  the 
rancour  that  had  blighted  his  life. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  robbed  by  the  girl  who  had 
no  right  in  our  house.  She  took  my  share  of  all; 
you  deceived  me,  Uncle  Madiot,"  he  said,  throwing 
the  words  in  the  old  man's  face. 

"  It  is  not  true.    I  said  nothing." 

"But  I  know,  I  have  learned  all.  The  day  I 
heard  it  I  left  never  to  return.  I  was  nothing  at 
home,  and  she  was  in  control.  Do  you  dare  deny 
it?  And  yet  I  am  Pere  Madiot 's  son.  When  I  see 
her  I  shake  with  jealousy." 

"Be  silent,  Antoine;  now,  be  silent." 

"If  that  is  what  you  are  after,  here's  your 
answer:  I  hate  her." 

Antoine  sprang  up,  he  gave  no  heed  to  Uncle 
Madiot,  whose  huge  shoulders  were  bowed  in 
shame.  He  looked  round  the  room  at  the  cus- 
tomers whose  curiosity  had  been  aroused,  and 
who  turned  their  heads  cautiously  toward  the 
scene  of  the  battle,  but  as  they  met  the  young 
man's  gray  eyes  they  immediately  dropped  theirs 
on  their  glasses,  with  an  air  of  indifference.  When 
he  thought  that  they  had  settled  down,  Antoine 
drew  a  franc  from  his  pocket,  and  threw  it  on  the 
table. 

"I  pay,"  he  said.     The  money  rang  on  the 


REDEMPTION  221 

marble,  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  street  and 
his  face  deadly  pale,  he  made  his  way  between 
the  tables. 

The  old  man  followed  slowly,  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  his  face  puckered  pitifully.  Many  thought 
the  two  men  were  going  out  to  fight,  but  not  so. 
Antoine  stopped  in  the  doorway  of  the  Sept 
Freres  Tranquilles,  looked  at  the  white  mud,  at 
the  autumn  sun,  and  turned  to  the  left. 

Behind  him  a  terrible  voice,  which  anger  and 
drink  had  rendered  unrecognizable,  rang  through 
the  streets:  "Wretch!"  it  cried. 

This  was  their  farewell. 

The  young  workman  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  went  on  his  way,  straight  to  his  mistress,  and 
instead  of  slipping  cautiously  into  the  doorway  of 
the  court,  crowded  like  a  human  hive,  he  called 
out,  "  Marie." 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 


SHE  was  waiting  for  him.  For  her,  too,  the  day 
marked  an  entry  on  the  unknown.  Twice  already 
Marie  Schwarz  had  felt  the  anguish  of  utter  desti- 
tution, the  first  time  when  her  mother  had  turned 
her  out  of  doors,  the  second  when  she  had  arrived 
in  Nantes  alone,  in  that  hour  of  distress  when  she 
first  met  Henriette.  And  now  her  lover  was 
leaving  her,  it  meant  not  only  misery  for  the 
morrow,  but  the  actual  separation  that  very 
night,  perhaps  forever.  Such,  however,  is  the 
prodigious  vitality  of  youth,  that  she  met  him 
with  a  smile  ready  for  their  last  walk. 

Antoine,  still  pale,  seized  her  wrist. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "I  must  get  some  air;  I  have 
just  bid  farewell  to  Uncle  Eloi,  and  I  think  for  a 
long  time." 

She  gathered  that  he  had  been  drinking,  that 
they  had  quarrelled,  that  his  Breton  temper  was 
aroused.  Hiding  her  smile,  she  followed  him, 
speaking  quietly  to  avoid  a  scene  in  the  street. 
The  young  workman  told  his  tale,  he  held  himself 
straight,  but  his  eyes  were  strange.  Marie,  slip- 
ping on  the  greasy  pavement,  had  passed  her  arm 
through  his,  her  one  aim  being  to  pacify  the 
angry  man. 

They  soon  reached  the  Rue  Grebillon,  where 
Marie  used  formerly  to  work,  and  which  she  usu- 

222 


REDEMPTION  223 

ally  avoided  now.  A  feeling  of  modesty,  which 
he  would  not  have  understood,  prevented  her 
from  going  down  this  street  which  she  used  to 
frequent,  when  an  honest  girl,  during  the  summer. 
Behind  the  shop  windows  she  caught  sight  of 
workmen  whom  she  knew  by  sight,  and  who  had 
often  looked  after  her  when  she  passed  on  the 
beautiful  May  evenings.  Several  of  Madame 
Clemence's  clients  went  by,  pink  under  their  tight 
veils,  their  necks  swathed  in  furs,  women  for 
whom  she  used  to  try  on  hats,  perhaps  the  very- 
ones  they  now  wore.  These  laclies  did  not  look  at 
her,  they  had  perceived  from  a  distance  that  the 
couple  were  not  of  their  world.  Nevertheless  she 
was  embarrassed.  She  was  afraid  of  meeting  one 
of  the  girls  from  the  shop,  or  one  of  the  employees 
from  Mourieux's.  Therefore  when  Antoine,  so- 
bered by  the  fresh  air,  turned  to  her,  saying,  "I 
don't  know  what  I  am  doing  here,  shall  we  go  into 
the  country?"  she  eagerly  accepted. 

They  turned  to  the  right  and  went  toward  Ville 
en  Bois  and  Chantenay,  avoiding  the  rich  districts 
by  taking  turnings  familiar  to  them.  Marie  grew 
tired,  but  did  not  complain.  Antoine  having  re- 
covered himself,  bore  no  trace  of  the  morning's 
work  beyond  an  air  of  black  depression,  which  she 
knew  well,  and  which  was  merely  the  effect  of  his 
descent  from  a  race  formerly  associated  with  the 
sadness  of  the  Breton  Sea.  He  spoke  low;  he  en- 
deavoured to  comfort  her;  but  he  found  no  words 
wherewith  to  soothe  her  double  loss.  His  words 
had  no  value  but  that  of  being  spoken  softly  and 
sadly. 


224  REDEMPTION 

"I  will  send  you  my  advance  pay;  that  will 
help  you  a  little.  And  then,  in  two  years,  per- 
haps I  shall  be  on  half-pay.  When  I  am  free  I 
will  marry  you,  eh,  Marie?" 

She  listened.  She  knew  that  the  advance  pay 
would  not  buy  food  for  two  days,  that  Antoine 
would  not  return;  that,  free  from  the  Service,  he 
would  not  marry  her.  And  then  this  woman, 
creature  of  devotion  and  immortal  love,  bright- 
ened at  the  sound  of  words  not  meant  for  her,  but 
for  others  who  have  not  fallen,  and  whose  heart 
is  in  the  future. 

As  they  ascended  a  hill,  they  suddenly  came 
face  to  the  sinking  sun.  The  chill  air  struck  them. 
Marie  thought  of  the  distant  day  when  she  had 
gone  with  Henriette  to  the  Loutrels' — that  day 
of  enervating  heat. 

"You  will  bid  her  good-by,  Antoine,"  she 
suddenly  said. 

"No,"  he  answered,  harshly.  She  was  silent, 
and  turned  her  face  in  sorrow  on  the  gardens  that 
lined  the  country  road.  A  few  yellow  leaves  still 
hung  to  bare  trees;  the  wind  swept  them  along  the 
enclosures,  green  with  moss  and  blackened  with 
smoke.  The  mournful  sound  of  running  streams, 
the  groaning  of  machinery,  broke  upon  the  autumn 
air.  A  flight  of  linnets,  attracted  by  the  last  scat- 
tered thistles,  rose  against  the  sky.  Antoine  and 
Marie  walked  no  longer  arm-in-arm.  The  name 
of  Henriette  had  broken  the  harmony  of  their 
thoughts. 

Presently,  through  a  gap  in  an  enclosure,  they 
caught  sight  of  some  houses  at  their  feet,  and, 


REDEMPTION  225 

away  in  the  distance,  the  open  country  and  a  la- 
bourer at  work.  On  the  left,  not  far  from  them, 
was  the  open  gate  of  a  cemetery. 

"I  did  not  think  we  were  so  near,"  said  Antoine. 
"I  won't  go  without  bidding  her  farewell." 

"That  is  right,"  replied  Marie.  "We  are  only 
two  minutes  from  the  Rue  de  1'Ermitage.  If  she 
is  in,  how  happy  she  will  be." 

But  going  on  ahead  of  her,  Antoine  entered  the 
cemetery. 

"Antoine,"  called  Marie,  "I  won't  go  in.  I  am 
afraid  of  cemeteries." 

He  gave  no  heed  to  the  call,  and  Marie  decided 
to  follow  him.  He  was  already  at  some  distance 
from  her.  She  crossed  herself  by  habit,  and  with 
a  gesture  of  alarm  lifted  her  dress  on  both  sides, 
as  though  it  might  carry  away  the  germs  of  death. 
She  kept  to  the  middle  of  the  path,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible from  the  white  tombstones.  Here  and  there 
faded  wreaths  lay  In  her  way,  which  she  carefully 
avoided.  Tired  as  she  was,  she  ran  to  rejoin 
Antoine.  The  young  workman  had  reached  a 
part  of  the  cemetery  where  wooden  crosses  were 
mingled  with  the  stone  ones.  He  was  standing 
still,  his  hat  pressed  against  his  vest,  and  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  an  old  black  cross  on  which  the  follow- 
ing inscription  was  written  in  white  letters:  "To 
Prosper  Madiot,  aged  forty-four  years,  six  months, 
two  days,  and  to  Jacqueline  Melier,  his  wife,  aged 
thirty-one  years  and  eight  months,  by  their 
broken-hearted  children." 

Marie  joined  him,  and  knelt  down  behind. 

"It's  a  pity  they  were  not  happy,  those  two," 


226  REDEMPTION 

he  said  aloud,  with  the  dreamy  look  she  knew  so 
well. 

A  bunch  of  roses  still  fresh,  but  crushed  by  the 
heavy  rains,  had  been  placed  on  the  tomb.  An- 
toine  pushed  it  with  his  foot  from  the  grave 
where  his  dead  lay  buried. 

"I'll  send  them  a  beautiful  crown  for  my  fare- 
well. Sleep  well  you,  woman,  who  lie  there;  I 
am  not  angry  with  you.  I  am  going  off  to  join 
my  regiment.  It's  Lemarie"  who  angers  me,  that 
man  who  seduced  you  with  money — oh!  my  mis- 
erable mother — and  who  passed  you  on  to  one  of 
his  workmen.  You  were  too  good  for  a  workman. 
You  were  not  happy  every  day,  my  fair-haired 
mother.  My  father  beat  you;  he  detested  his 
master,  and  vented  his  rage  on  you.  You  shed 
more  than  your  share  of  tears.  I  am  the  son  of 
you  both,  that  is  why  I  am  sometimes  sad.  I 
would  rather  have  been  your  daughter;  you  loved 
her  better  than  me.  You  used  to  take  her  to 
school  with  your  blue  apron  on,  and  you  hid 
apples  for  her  in  your  pocket.  At  night  you  kept 
her  warm,  while  I  lay  alone  in  a  corner  of  the 
room.  And  then  when  you  died,  my  father,  who 
drank,  kicked  and  cuffed  me ;  you  at  least  did  not 
strike  me.  I  remember  all,  my  wretched  mother, 
and  my  heart  is  sad.  But  be  at  rest,  I  have  never 
mentioned  my  secret  to  any  one  but  Uncle  Ma- 
diot,  when  he  provoked  me.  I  will  tell  no  one 
else.  I  don't  want  people  to  speak  ill  of  you,  for 
you  would  certainly  pity  me,  were  you  here ;  pity 
me  because  I  have  to  join  the  army.  My  blood 
turns  sour  to  think  of  it.  They  have  taken  my 


REDEMPTION  227 

mistress  from  me.  I  will  make  a  bad  soldier. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  been  of  some  use  if  I  had 
had  a  home,  a  family,  and  work  to  keep  things 
going,  like  the  very  old  men  who  need  not  serve, 
and  like  the  coming  generation.  But  the  time  has 
not  yet  come.  Good-by,  father;  good-by,  mother. 
I  am  sad,  and  so  were  you.  But  I  am  not  like  you 
who  were  patient,  and  I  am  nearer  to  my  rights. 
Good-by." 

Antoine  turned  away,  and  leaned  over  the 
kneeling  girl. 

"I  have  no  one  but  you,"  he  said. 

He  was  about  to  embrace  her,  but  saw  that  she 
was  deadly  pale,  that  her  eyes  were  wide  open  in 
an  agonized  stare. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Marie?" 

She  made  no  reply.  What  was  the  matter?  In 
listening  to  her  lover  she  had  realized  for  the  first 
time  with  cruel  clearness  the  dreadful  desolation 
of  the  morrow,  with  no  Antoine,  no  profession,  no 
friendship,  and  no  courage.  She  felt  incapable  of 
bearing  the  dreadful  burden,  and  was  almost 
fainting. 

"What  is  the  matter,  speak,"  cried  Antoine. 

He  supported  her  and  looked  round  for  help,  for 
some  one  to  summon  should  she  faint.  Near  the 
entrance  a  woman  was  tenderly  planting  a  newly 
made  grave.  That  was  all.  The  light  was  fading. 
The  scared  linnets  rose  in  the  air  seeking  shelter. 

Tears  welled  up  in  Marie's  eyes  and  ran  down 
her  cheeks,  sobs  shook  her  slight  form.  Antoine, 
seeing  her  cry,  and  realizing  that  it  was  just  a 
woman's  weakness,  pushed  her  away. 


228  REDEMPTION 

"That'll  do,  that'll  do,"  he  said  brutally,  "dry 
your  eyes,  and  come  along." 

She  answered  as  do  so  many  other  poor  wretches, 
by  a  submissive  look  of  grief,  a  shudder  that  ran 
through  her  whole  being,  and  followed  him,  let- 
ting her  dress  drag  across  the  tombs.  The  woman 
who  was  planting  thought  that  they  had  been 
weeping  over  their  newly  buried  dead,  and  they 
had  but  wept  over  themselves, 


CHAPTER   XXV. 


FROM  the  gray-covered  diary.  "My  brother  has 
left  without  bidding  me  farewell.  Uncle  Madiot 
came  home  furious  with  him,  so  that  I  had  some 
trouble  in  pacifying  him.  If  he  had  told  me  the 
cause  of  the  quarrel,  I  might  have  been  more  suc- 
cessful. But  he  simply  said,  'Henriette,  I  will 
not  have  you  send  him  any  more  money.  I  don't 
want  you  to  see  him  again.'  I  don't  know  whether 
I  shall  be  very  strict  in  obeying  the  order.  I  am 
the  eldest,  our  mother  is  dead,  and  I  am  fore- 
woman— three  reasons  why  it  is  my  duty  to  help 
him,  when  he  has  spent  all. 

"This  morning  my  uncle  went  to  see  the  Lou- 
trels.  It  seems  that  Etienne  had  a  friend,  a  ser- 
geant in  the  regiment  stationed  at  Roche-sur- 
Yon,  and  uncle  will  receive  news  of  Antoine 
through  him. 

"My  chief  grief  is  for  Marie,  left  alone  again  in 
misery,  and,  I  feel  certain,  with  remorse  added  to 
it.  If  I  only  knew  that  she  would  receive  me!  I 
can  still  feel  her  kiss  on  my  cheeks  when  she  said 
at  Mauves,  'Love  me.'  I  will  beg  Madame 
Lemarie  to  find  out.  She  will  go  to  her,  and  tell 
me  whether  I,  in  my  turn,  may  go,  since  she  re- 
pulsed me.  It  was  shame  that  drove  me  away; 
if  poverty  calls  me  back,  how  joyously  I  would 
open  wide  my  arms.  What  joy  it  is  to  bend  down 

229 


230  REDEMPTION 

and  console:  I  know  of  none  equal  to  it.  Antoine 
refused  my  sympathy;  Marie  soon  rejected  it. 

"What  things  are  happening  round  me  to  take 
my  thoughts  off  myself!  My  uncle  is  a  source  of 
anxiety;  for  the  first  time  he  is  reserved.  It 
must  be  very  difficult  for  him  to  hide  his  trouble. 
I  did  not  think  he  had  secrets  from  me;  now  I 
know  that  he  has  one. 

"The  house  is  sadder.  I  have  difficulty  in 
living  up  to  the  title  of  'gay  Henriette.' 

"It  is  always  better  to  think  of  others.  The 
idea  of  finishing  the  Litany  of  the  prayer-books 
came  to  me.  It  is  simple:  I  say 

"Lord,  have  mercy  on  mothers  whose  children 
suffer. 

"Have  mercy  on  those  who  have  a  love  of  jus- 
tice, and  do  not  believe  in  Thee. 

"Have  mercy  on  girls  who  feel  the  weight  of 
the  debt  to  their  cheated  youth. 

"Have  pity  on  young  girls  abandoned  to  sin. 

"Have  mercy  on  those  who  love,  and  whose 
love  may  not  be  returned. 

"Have  mercy  on  the  weak  whom  you  call 
softly." 

Bad  news  of  Antoine  came  to  his  uncle,  through 
Etienne,  at  the  close  of  December — a  reputation 
of  being  insubordinate  and  quarrelsome.  They 
had  their  eye  on  him  in  barracks,  and  punishments 
were  frequent — some  deserved,  and  others  added 
as  a  result  of  the  bad  name  which  he  had  acquired, 
so  that  he  was  a  scapegoat  for  others. 

Eloi  was  ashamed ;  and  when  the  first  of  Janu- 


REDEMPTION  231 

ary  arrived  he  dared  not  go  to  Mauves,  as  other 
years,  for  fear  of  hearing — "Sad  news,  eh,  Ma- 
diot?" 

It  was  Etienne  who  came  a  few  days  later,  one 
Sunday,  when  the  sun  was  shining.  But  he  did 
not  seek  the  uncle;  he  sought  Henriette. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


HENEIETTE  was  out.  It  was  afternoon,  the  pale 
blue  sky  shone  through  a  light  mist ;  the  flags  of 
the  ships  on  the  Loire  hung  motionless.  Now  and 
again,  at  regular  intervals,  chill  air  seemed  to  rise 
from  the  ground. 

All  the  poor  of  the  district,  especially  the 
women  and  children,  were  on  the  esplanade  of 
Saint  Anne's  Church,  which  terminates  abruptly 
to  the  south,  with  a  double  staircase  leading  to 
the  quay.  They  were  at  home  here;  the  rich 
never  came,  and  vehicles  crossed  the  avenue 
barely  once  a  day. 

The  kindly  warmth  had  brought  out  of  doors 
the  sick,  the  old,  and  new-born  infants.  Marcelle 
Esnault  was  there,  propped  up  on  her  pillows,  her 
face  shining  with  new  life ;  it  was  one  of  her  rare 
good  days.  The  vesper  bells  rang  out. 

The  same  little  groups  gathered  by  force  of 
habit  round  their  own  particular  trees,  seated  on 
chairs  brought  from  their  own  homes.  Some 
knitted,  others  talked,  others  sat  silent,  their 
hands  in  their  pockets  or  lying  idle  on  their  knees. 
Now  and  again  mothers  cast  a  glance  toward  the 
children  playing  in  groups  by  the  walls,  counted 
their  own,  and  resumed  their  former  attitude. 
Misery  basked  in  the  winter  sun;  worn  spirits 
revived. 

232 


REDEMPTION  233 

Henriette,  also  an  habituee,  wandered  from 
group  to  group  greeting  her  friends.  Of  the  whole 
crowd  she  alone  looked  rich,  but  was  not;  but  for 
this  exception  nothing  but  cotton  frocks,  or 
aprons  over  black  or  striped  skirts  could  be  seen. 
Hair  drawn  tight  from  the  temples  into  chignons, 
jackets  of  all  seasons,  old  men  with  caps  pulled 
over  their  ears.  Tall  and  slight,  a  little  black  felt 
hat  set  on  her  golden  hair,  a  picturesque  figure  in 
the  misty  light,  she  bent  to  question,  or  turned  to 
listen.  Neighbouring  groups  eyed  her  jealously, 
lest  she  might  pass  them  by. 

She  went  to  each  group,  and  as  she  left  it  was 
as  if  the  spirit  of  joy  had  passed  on. 

A  numerous  group  sat  round  the  first  tree — 
Marcelle  Esnault,  the  invalid,  her  mother,  and 
four  Breton  women,  wives  of  carriers.  All  looked 
anaemic;  their  lank  hair  was  like  wet  flax. 

"Just  imagine,  Madame  Esnault,  little  Mar- 
celle pretended  the  other  day  that  I  was  going  to 
get  married,  and  was  crying  over  it.  You  are  con- 
soled now,  Marcelle?" 

While  she  was  speaking,  Henriette  caressed  the 
child's  calm  face. 

" Don't  get  married;  don't  get  married;  don't 
get  married;  don't  get  married,"  cried  the  four 
women  at  once. 

"If  you  find  a  good  husband,  marry,"  said 
Marcelle's  mother  at  last,  "because  you  will  grow 
old." 

The  invalid  said  nothing;  her  friendship  and 
her  sufferings  were  things  she  did  not  speak  of 
aloud. 


234  REDEMPTION 

A  little  further  on  was  another  group  of  Henri- 
ette's  friends,  three  habitues  of  the  place.  An  old 
blind  man  in  a  workman's  blouse,  a  woman,  dark 
and  still  pretty,  and  a  little  girl,  too  serious  and 
pale  for  her  age — grandfather,  mother  and  daugh- 
ter. 

Henriette,  who  knew  their  story,  and  the  de- 
ferred hope  that  haunted  their  lives,  asked  Ma- 
dame Lusignan  whether  they  had  had  any  news. 

"No,  Mademoiselle  Henriette,"  replied  the 
grandfather;  "a  railway  bookseller's  license  is 
like  a  promise  made  to  children  to  get  peace, 
which  one  has  no  intention  of  keeping.  All  the 
same,  Ernestine  has  a  right  to  it.  Her  husband 
was  killed  by  accident  in  the  service." 

"But,  of  course,  Father,"  threw  in  the  little 
woman  warmly,  "no  one  says  the  contrary.  Un- 
fortunately he  was  not  killed  on  the  spot,  and  the 
company  gives  others  the  preference  over  me. 
It's  weary  waiting,"  she  added,  looking  at  her 
child. 

"One  needs  the  influence  of  the  rich,"  she  said, 
glancing  at  Henriette. 

Henriette  chatted  with  the  woman  for  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  knowing  a  rich  woman 
with  influence,  hoped  to  interest  her  in  the  mat- 
ter, on  which  the  future  of  the  three  depended, 
and  which  was  their  one  theme  of  conversation. 

"Mademoiselle  Henriette,"  interrupted  the  fresh 
young  voice  of  a  bread  carrier,  who  was  dressed  in 
a  light  frock,  in  spite  of  the  season,  and  against 
whose  shoulder  was  leaning  a  younger  sister,  an 
employee  at  a  dress-maker's,  a  frail,  amemic 


REDEMPTION  235 

creature,  "  isn't  it  wrong  of  her  not  to  put  on  a 
poultice?" 

"There  is  no  more  room  for  one,"  said  the  pale- 
faced  dress-maker.  ' '  I  ache  all  over,  and  my  eyes 
are  painful.  Do  your  eyes  ever  feel  like  burning 
coals,  Mademoiselle  Henriette?" 

"Sometimes,  when  I  have  been  up  at  night, 
and  from  looking  at  different  colours." 

' '  If  only  you  could  help  her  to  get  away  to  the 
South,"  threw  in  the  sister,  "or  to  some  house 
where  she  could  be  better  cared  for  than  at  home." 

The  sick  girl,  who  was  among  those  who  feel  too 
ill  to  believe  they  can  be  cured,  shook  her  head, 
but  Henriette  knelt  down  by  her,  speaking  so 
gently  and  so  convincingly  that  the  young  girl 
finished  by  saying:  "Do  you  think  so?  Can  I  be 
cured?  Will  you  find  the  necessary  funds?" 

The  faces  of  the  three  young  girls,  so  close  to 
one  another,  bore  the  harmonious  expression  of  a 
common  interest,  though  in  themselves  they 
were  so  dissimilar. 

And  so  Henriette  passed  on,  stopping  to  visit 
each  group.  They  were  not  always  composed  of 
the  poor  and  sick;  some  were  well  off,  that  is  to 
say,  people  who  have  enough  work  and  do  not 
fear  want,  there  were  also  healthy  men  and  buxom 
housewives  who  had  reared  ten  children,  and 
whose  patience  was  equal  to  twelve  at  least; 
red-cheeked  boys  and  young  girls  whose  merry 
laugh  rang  like  bells  over  the  Loire.  But  Henri- 
ette lingered  longest  with  those  who  suffered; 
they  needed  her,  they  regretted  her  departure; 
blessings  fell  on  her  from  the  crowd;  she  felt  in 


236  REDEMPTION 

the  midst  of  thoughts  which  said  to  her,  "Do  not 
abandon  us;  who  but  you  has  comforted  our 
wretchedness?"  They  became  stronger,  they  be- 
came better,  there  was  a  virtue  in  her  that  soft- 
ened sorrow.  "  Mademoiselle  Henriette,"  they 
seemed  to  say,  "be  the  spirit  that  leaves  behind  it 
an  amazed  feeling  of  happiness,  for  hope  grows 
sick  in  this  life." 

She  walked  with  a  light  step,  and  passed  by  the 
church,  when  suddenly  Etienne  came  upon  her 
from  a  neighbouring  street.  Almost  simultane- 
ously they  caught  sight  of  each  other.  Henriette 
scarcely  changed  expression,  but  she  stood  still  to 
let  him  come  up  to  her.  With  his  black  vest  and 
white  buttons,  his  strong  face,  his  head  that  tow- 
ered above  the  passers-by,  he  came  quickly  up, 
dominated  by  the  one  desire  of  reading  his  des- 
tiny in  her  transparent,  star-like  eyes.  The  hour 
had  come,  and  they  no  longer  had  any  secrets 
from  each  other. 

She  had  paled  a  little,  and  drew  off  her  glove 
slowly,  that  her  friend  might  better  feel  her  warm 
clasp,  that  he  might  not  say  again:  "I  am  too  in- 
significant for  you." 

She  held  out  her  hand  so  frankly  that  he  was 
surprised. 

"You  are  not  shy  of  me  to-day?" 

"Not  more  than  usual,  Etienne." 

"I  went  to  see  you  at  the  Rue  PErmitage  as  I 
have  news  of  Antoine.  He  is  in  prison  for  ten 
days.  I  don't  quite  know  what  he  has  done;  we 
are  not  told.  They  are  more  severe  with  him 
than  with  others,"  he  added,  to  postpone  the 


REDEMPTION  237 

sovereign  question  of  love  that  was  in  both  their 
minds. 

He  was  not  thinking  of  Antoine,  he  had  no 
thought  but  for  the  beautiful  girl  before  him, 
whose  smile  was  like  the  brief  warmth  of  the  closing 
day,  very  soft  but  holding  out  no  promise. 

"  Mademoiselle  Henriette,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  since  the  last  time  I  spoke  to  you,  I  have  thought 
of  nothing  else.  It  is  months  ago;  I  can  no 
longer  bear  this  sorrow;  I  have  no  heart  for  fish- 
ing, or  hunting,  or  anything.  My  mother  knows, 
and  she  said,  'Ask  her  in  the  name  of  Mere  Loutrel 
her  friend,  and  she  will  answer.' " 

He  saw  her  grow  paler;  her  eyes  fell. 

"My  poor  friend,  my  poor  friend,"  she  said. 
"It  grieves  me  to  pain  you,"  she  continued,  her 
voice  becoming  more  humble,  "but  I  cannot,  I 
cannot  answer  'yes.7" 

The  young  man's  face  grew  harsh,  his  eyes 
frowned. 

"That's  what  I  have  got  by  loving  you,  by 
waiting  for  you." 

"How  can  I  help  it,  Etienne?  I  have  often 
questioned  myself,  but  perhaps  my  profession  has 
changed  me;  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  marry. 
You  don't  believe  me?" 

"No,  certainly  not." 

"What  do  you  think,  then?"  she  asked  quickly, 
for  his  tone  wounded  her. 

"That  you  love  another,  a  richer  man,  some 
one  who  knew  how  to  woo  you  better,  and  who 
does  not  love  you  so  well." 

He  spoke  almost  loud,  and  burning  to  learn  his 


238  REDEMPTION 

fate,  and  determined  to  end  the  matter.  "Who 
is  he;  I  must  know,"  he  cried  angrily. 

Reproach  faced  him  from  Henriette's  face. 
"You  are  right,  come,"  she  said. 

It  mattered  little  to  her  now  to  walk  down  the 
avenue  side  by  side  with  Etienne.  Was  not  all 
over  between  them? 

"Come;"  he  followed  without  understanding, 
and  they  went  forward,  he  haughtily  seeking  his 
rival  among  the  groups  that  she  whispered  to  him 
to  look  at.  He  was  amazed  to  see  none  but  old 
men,  women,  and  children. 

"These  are  the  Goulvens,"  she  said;  "these  the 
Mennerets — Culine,  Maquet,  the  dress-maker  and 
her  sister;  Pere  Lusignan;  the  Esnaults." 

Some  gave  Henriette  a  friendly  smile  as  she 
went  by,  but  she  forgot  to  greet  them.  She 
barely  saw  them.  Etienne's  desperate  suffering 
heart  throbbed  near  her,  though  he  was  silent. 
She  did  not  hear  Marcelle  Esnault's  sad  whisper: 
"There  they  are  together  again." 

She  came  to  the  foot  of  Saint  Anne's  statue,  on 
the  last  step  far  enough  away  from  the  trees  not 
to  be  overheard:  "Those  are  my  friends,  Etienne," 
she  said;  "I  feel  that  I  must  serve  them;  how, 
I  know  not  or  scarcely  know.  Believe  me  or  not 
as  you  like,  they  are  the  cause  of  my  not  marry- 
ing. Were  I  to  abandon  them,  remorse  would 
haunt  me,  and  for  their  sake  I  accept  the  pain 
which  I  feel  in  telling  you,  Etienne,  to  leave  me  free, 
for  they  need  my  life,  my  whole  being.  You  cannot 
understand  what  there  is  between  us.  I  lose  my- 
self in  thinking  of  it;  look  how  jealous  they  are." 


REDEMPTION  239 

Under  the  first  tree,  she  pointed  out  Marcelle 
Esnault's  perambulator,  which  had  been  turned 
so  that  the  child  could  watch  Henriette.  She  was 
too  far  to  hear  what  was  said,  but  the  quick  per- 
ceptions of  the  little  invalid  were  awakened  and 
she  was  anxious  and  sad.  She  had  both  hands  on 
the  sides  of  the  perambulator,  and  had  raised  her- 
self by  an  effort  which  was  a  martyrdom ;  but  she 
could  see  Henriette,  and  her  thoughts  were  ex- 
pressed by  the  tears,  which  ran  over  her  cheeks 
on  to  the  woollen  rug. 

Etienne  looked  from  Marcelle  Esnault  to  the 
exquisite  beauty  of  Henriette's  face,  where  com- 
passion and  grief  were  blended;  and  although  he 
did  not  fully  understand,  yet  he  knew  that  she 
was  not  deceiving  him,  he  felt  that  a  mysterious 
power  stronger  than  love,  but  which  by  no  means 
excluded  it,  kept  them  apart. 

"I  must  speak  to  you,"  he  said;  "let  us  go 
down." 

He  descended,  and  she  followed  until  they  were 
lost  to  sight  from  the  avenue.  The  stone  steps 
reddened  by  the  dying  sun  were  deserted;  Hen- 
riette and  Etienne  were  alone,  both  young,  both 
handsome,  their  hearts  torn  with  love.  Their 
secret  had  no  witnesses  but  the  Loire  flowing  at 
their  feet,  and  the  deserted  winter  landscape, 
where  tall  bare  poplars  rose  like  columns  of  blue 
smoke  from  the  green  meadows. 

"Look  over  there  beyond  the  islands,"  said 
Etienne. 

"Yes,"  murmured  Henriette,  "it  is  Nantes." 

"I  have  passed  years  there  in  loving  you." 


240  REDEMPTION 

' '  Had  you  but  told  me  when  I  was  quite  young ! " 
replied  Henriette  with  a  burst  of  tenderness,  that 
dyed  her  cheeks  blood-red. 

"Sometimes  months  passed  without  my  seeing 
you,  but  when  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  you,  I  went 
home  happy.  '  There  is  no  other  girl  in  Nantes 
with  such  a  heart,'  said  my  mother,  and  she  was 
not  mistaken.  Poor  mother,  how  you  wronged 
me;  you  should  have  said,  'She  has  a  heart  for 
all  but  you,  she  will  despise  you,  she  will  send  you 
away;  don't  think  of  her.'  But  I  believed  in  you, 
believed  in  you  because  we  had  played  together, 
and  because  you  looked  happy  when  you  came  to 
Mauves.  When  I  was  fishing  on  the  Loire  I  had 
no  thoughts  but  for  you,  Henriette.  When  I  was 
worn  out  with  casting  the  nets,  when  my  hands 
were  frozen  in  dragging  them  up,  I  said:  'It  is  for 
Henriette.'  When  I  felt  inclined  to  lie  in  bed  on 
winter  mornings  when  my  father  woke  me  before 
it  was  light,  my  mother  came  to  my  bedside: 
'You  are  hastening  your  wedding  day,'  she  would 
say — and  that  was  enough." 

Henriette  listened,  leaning  against  him,  her 
head  thrown  back,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  angry 
face;  she  seemed  to  implore  him  to  be  silent. 

"Listen  still,"  he  continued  without  looking  at 
her;  "I  have  passed  whole  nights  at  my  post, 
I  have  cast  more  nets  than  any  fisherman  on  the 
Loire;  I  have  taken  boat-loads  of  vegetables  to 
Trentemoult  to  be  able  one  day  to  give  you  the 
fruit  of  my  labour.  Now  the  money  is  earned, 
but  she  for  whom  I  worked  despises  me;  I  will 
go  away." 


REDEMPTION  241 

"No,  no,  Etienne;  stay,  stay,  for  the  sake  of 
others;  forget  me." 

"No,  you  cannot  marry  me;  I  cannot  stay. 
My  mother  cannot  comfort  me;  every  inch  of 
the  Loire  reminds  me  of  you;  the  river  has 
heard  my  secret  too  often.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind.  I  have  three  brothers  already  at  sea; 
my  father  counted  on  me  for  fishing,  but  his 
fourth  son,  too,  must  go  to  sea — you  have  de- 
cided that." 

He  began  to  laugh  in  anger  and  sorrow. 

"Look  from  your  window  to-morrow,  Made- 
moiselle Henriette,  toward  the  dockyards  of  the 
Loire;  not  later  than  to-morrow  they  will  begin 
to  build  there  a  fishing  smack.  She  will  bear  your 
name,  The  Henriette,  and  she  will  carry  me  from 
here,  where  I  suffer  too  much,  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, never  to  return,  never." 

He  stood  with  one  arm  extended,  pointing  to 
the  west,  where  a  white  sail  was  visible;  then 
running  hastily  down  the  remaining  steps,  was 
lost  to  sight  behind  the  cliffs. 

"If  he  had  only  spoken  sooner,  my  whole  life 
would  be  different,  and  to  think  that  I  am  let- 
ting him  go!"  repeated  Henriette  over  and  over 
again  in  a  dazed  tone,  but  she  did  not  follow 
him. 

She  gazed  over  the  river  to  the  horizon  and 
already  she  saw  his  ship  put  to  sea,  never  to  re- 
turn. Several  couples  came  down  the  steps  to 
enjoy  the  fresh  air,  and  brushed  against  her  in 
passing.  She  woke  from  her  dream,  climbed  the 
steps,  and  leaning  over  Marcelle  Esnault,  "You 


242  REDEMPTION 

will  never  know,"  she  said,  "how  much  I  love  my 
little  friend  to-day." 

Marcelle  looked  up,  but  this  time  she  did  not 
understand. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


ORDERS  flowed  in  at  Madame  Clemence's,  and 
during  the  weeks  which  followed  the  Sunday 
when  she  had  said  good-by  to  Etienne,  Henriette 
had  little  time  to  think  of  herself. 

One  morning  at  the  end  of  January  she  was  told 
at  Madame  Clemence's  work  room  that  Eloi 
Madiot  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  As  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  her  he  said: 

"Ah,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think?  Antoine — 
Well." 

Old  Madiot  looked  very  much  upset.  He  was 
out  of  breath  with  his  hurried  walk,  and  spoke  in 
broken  sentences. 

"Antoine  is  to  be  court-mart  ialled." 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  Henriette,  "I  had  a  pre- 
sentiment of  it." 

"So  had  I,  though  I  said  nothing  to  you. 
What  a  disgrace!  A  Madiot,  my  own  nephew, 
to  be  court-martialled.  It  will  be  in  the  papers!" 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"I  have  just  come  from  Mauves.  Etienne  did 
not  know  the  details;  I  only  know  what  he  told 
me.  It  seems  that  Antoine  had  a  quarrel  with  an 
officer  in  one  of  the  barrack  rooms  two  days  ago." 

"With  Monsieur  Lemarie,  I  suppose?" 

She  leaned  forward,  holding  on  to  the  banisters 
with  one  hand. 

243 


244  REDEMPTION 

He  looked  at  her,  trying  to  avoid  the  danger  of 
betraying  himself. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "Lemarie  or  some  other,  it 
makes  no  difference.  It  is  all  the  same,  you  know. 
He  insulted  and  struck  him.  It  is  the  most  seri- 
ous offence  in  the  army." 

"Oh!"  she  interrupted,  "the  penalty.  What 
is  the  penalty?  " 

Seeing  her  anxiety,  he  tried  to  draw  back. 

"Why,  my  dear,  that  depends ' 

"It  is  death,  isn't  it?  They  are  so  hard! 
Death!  Oh,  Uncle,  our  poor  Antoine!" 

The  old  man  went  up  one  step,  overcome  with 
pity  for  the  sobbing  girl,  and  put  his  arm  round 
her  shoulders. 

"No,  no,  child — I  was  wrong,  I  spoke  too  fast. 
I  don't  know  what  really  happened — it  may  not 
be  so  very  serious.  Don't  cry  like  that ;  you  will 
make  yourself  ill — they  often  get  off  with  impris- 
onment. Come,  Henriette,  I  tell  you  Etienne 
doesn't  know  the  details.  Don't  upset  yourself 
so — you  are  tired  enough  already.  We  must 
wait." 

They  soon  heard  the  facts  of  the  case. 

It  was  only  too  true.  Antoine,  who  had  been 
drinking,  went  into  the  wrong  barrack  room  on 
coming  back  from  target  practice.  A  corporal 
ordered  him  out ;  the  soldier  answered  with  abuse, 
and  as  Sublieutenant  Lemarie,  hearing  the  noise, 
came  in  and  repeated  the  order,  Antoine  fell  upon 
the  officer  and  struck  and  kicked  him  twice, 
shouting,  "I'll  soon  settle  him!"  He  had  been 
quickly  overpowered  and  arrested.  Now  the  case 


REDEMPTION  245 

was  coming  up  for  hearing  at  Nantes,  the  head- 
quarters of  the  military  district. 

It  was  a  bitter  trial  to  Henriette,  and  still  more 
to  old  Madiot.  The  old  soldier  was  wounded  in 
his  tenderest  spot,  his  military  pride  as  a  faithful 
servant  of  his  country,  his  love  of  the  army,  which 
he  held  sacred  above  all  things.  It  was  agony  to 
him  to  think  that  the  name  of  Madiot  would  be 
dragged  through  a  court-martial  as  the  name  of 
the  accused  and  condemned ;  for  he  had  no  doubt 
of  the  issue.  But  another  anxiety  robbed  him  of 
rest  and  sleep.  Antoine  would  speak.  The  secret 
would  be  divulged  at  the  trial,  and  discussed  as 
part  of  the  case,  probably  printed  in  the  papers, 
of  which  he  had  a  superstitious  dread.  There 
was  no  doubt  about  it:  there  was  only  one  way 
for  Antoine  to  try  and  save  his  life.  The  facts 
were  undeniable;  he  could  only  plead,  "I  did  not 
strike  the  officer,  I  struck  the  man  I  hated  in  re- 
venge for  a  family  grudge,  a  blood-feud.  These 
Lemaries  were  the  cause  of  my  mother's  death,  of 
my  estrangement  from  Henriette,  of  all  my  revo- 
lutionary opinions  and  wasted  life.  The  quarrel 
was  between  man  and  man,  between  the  son  of  a 
woman  who  was  betrayed  and  the  son  of  her  be- 
trayer." He  would  be  sure  to  say  this  especially 
as  he  hated  Henriette. 

Eloi  Madiot  was  haunted  by  this  thought.  The 
days  flew  by  with  frightful  rapidity.  He  was  in- 
formed that  Antoine  had  been  transferred  from 
the  prison  of  Roche-sur-Yon  to  that  of  Nantes, 
and  of  the  probable  date  of  the  trial.  At  last 
he  received  a  summons  to  appear  as  witness 


246  REDEMPTION 

on  the  27th  of  February  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon. 

A  few  days  after  Antoine's  arrest,  Henrietta 
had  written  to  Madame  Lemarie:  "You  will 
understand,  Madame,  that  I  cannot  come  and 
see  you  at  the  risk  of  meeting  Monsieur  Lemarie. 
I  should  be  unworthy  of  the  name  of  sister  if  I 
were  not  disposed  to  take  my  brother's  part,  and 
if  I  did  not  suffer  at  the  thought  of  the  dreadful 
penalty  which  threatens  him.  I  shall  never  for- 
get your  kindness  to  me,  and  shall  always  remain, 
Madame,  yours  respectfully  and  sincerely,  HEN- 
RIETTE  MADIOT." 

She  also  waited  in  an  agony  of  apprehension, 
forced  to  hide  her  thoughts  and  work  listlessly, 
without  that  freshness  of  imagination  which  had 
often  been  the  envy  of  her  companions.  As  she 
passed  along  the  quay  to  her  work,  she  could  see 
the  framework  of  Etienne's  sloop  surrounded  by 
scaffolding.  The  workmen  were  already  putting 
in  the  planks.  She  thought  to  herself  that  the 
boat  would  soon  be  ready,  and  the  sound  of  the 
hammers  echoed  in  her  heart.  Two  days  were 
approaching  which  she  looked  upon  with  equal 
dread.  That  of  Antoine's  trial,  and  that  of 
Etienne's  departure. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 


AT  the  extreme  east  end  of  Nantes  stands  a  new 
street  between  white  walls;  it  contains  the  cav- 
alry barracks  and  the  military  prison — a  dreary 
spot  where  no  one  passes  except  on  business,  sol- 
diers, vegetable  sellers,  milkmen,  and  officers  on 
duty.  The  prison  wing  forms  the  corner  of  the 
street  on  the  left,  continued  by  a  low  building, 
the  court-martial  room  in  which  Antoine  Madiot 
is  to  be  tried;  then  the  wall  runs  straight  in  blind- 
ing whiteness  toward  the  open  country. 

The  hour  has  struck.  Inside  the  Court  nothing 
is  heard  but  the  whispered  conversation  of  a 
dozen  soldiers,  seated  on  the  benches  round  the 
walls  in  the  part  of  the  room  reserved  to  the  pub- 
lic. They  sit  talking  with  their  rifles  between 
their  knees;  the  sergeant  in  command  is  silent, 
his  surly  glance,  which  holds  his  men  in  awe, 
wandering  from  the  shine  of  his  beautifully 
blacked  boots  to  the  rich  blood-red  curtain  on  the 
window.  He  is  thinking  of  the  fine  weather  and 
the  luck  of  one  of  his  comrades  who  has  got  leave  of 
absence  from  noon  until  evening.  The  room  looks 
almost  pretty  in  the  sunlight  with  its  woodwork 
of  polished  oak  all  round.  Beyond  the  balustrade 
which  divides  the  room  in  two  halves  are  two 
raised  tables  covered  with  blue  cloth  brightened 
by  a  row  of  gilt  nails;  the  largest,  facing  the  room 

247 


248  REDEMPTION 

is  that  of  the  tribunal;  the  other,  placed  perpen- 
dicularly, is  for  the  public  minister  and  clerk. 

It  is  half-past  one.  The  windows  rattle  as  a 
carriage  passes;  several  saddle  horses  stop  before 
the  door.  The  soldiers  listen  as  the  officers  dis- 
mount; a  sword  clatters  against  the  pavement. 
Absolute  silence  reigns  in  the  room  where  there  is 
no  public  audience.  The  soldiers  have  risen  and 
stand  in  rank  facing  those  who  are  to  enter.  Two 
officers  come  in  with  portfolios  under  their  arms, 
a  pink  and  white  young  lieutenant  of  infantry 
who  looks  like  a  good  fellow,  and  the  officer  who 
is  to  act  as  secretary.  They  place  their  papers  on 
the  smaller  table  and  await  the  judges. 

There  are  fourteen  men  in  the  room,  and  not 
one  has  a  thought  for  Antoine  Madiot.  When  he 
comes  in  every  eye  will  be  hostile  or  indifferent. 
The  public  prosecutor  reads  over  the  opening  and 
concluding  sentences  which  he  has  written  down; 
the  clerk  arranges  the  documents;  the  sergeant 
and  soldiers  do  not  know  Madiot.  At  this  moment 
a  veiled  woman  in  black  timidly  enters  the  empty 
space  allotted  to  the  public.  She  takes  a  seat  in 
a  corner  close  to  the  dividing  balustrade.  Her 
dark  eyes  gleam  through  her  veil.  Her  thoughts 
of  Antoine  are  enough  to  make  up  for  the  indiffer- 
ence of  all  the  rest. 

"Shoulder  arms!    Present  arms!" 

The  seven  officers  of  the  court-martial  come  in 
through  the  farthest  door.  They  are  in  full  uni- 
form. The  youngest  are  about  the  same  age  as 
Antoine,  lads  with  budding  moustaches,  who  run 
their  ringers  through  their  hair  as  they  bare  their 


REDEMPTION  249 

heads  and  lay  their  white  gloves  on  the  edge  of 
the  table  beside  the  cap  with  gold  braid  or  the 
helmet  whose  horsehair  plume  lies  along  the  blue 
cloth  of  the  table.  They  are  all  very  grave,  some 
by  a  conscious  effort.  They  are  prepared  to  be 
bored  by  these  cases,  always  the  same,  which  it 
is  their  habit  and  duty  to  judge.  What  is  that 
dark  heap  against  the  woodwork  obstinately  gaz- 
ing at  the  door  by  which  the  prisoner  must  enter, 
the  door  leading  to  the  prison  courtyard,  where  an 
old  retired  sergeant  keeps  guard?  It  is  only  a 
common  girl  with  rather  fine  eyes.  Then  they 
stare  at  the  wall  above  the  line  of  soldiers.  They 
sit  down  in  order  of  rank,  officers  of  infantry, 
artillery,  and  cavalry,  a  major,  two  captains  and 
the  lieutenants. 

Marie  crouching  in  her  corner  only  glanced  at 
them  for  a  second.  She  had  eyes  for  one  thing 
only,  the  dark  shadow  of  the  doorway  through 
which  her  shame,  her  life,  her  only  love  must 
enter.  A  fat  man  in  a  black  gown  comes  in  late, 
puffing  and  blowing;  he  crosses  the  room  and 
stands  behind  a  kind  of  box  with  a  grating  des- 
tined for  the  prisoner.  She  took  no  notice  of  him. 
Some  one  followed  him :  old  Madiot  in  his  Sunday 
coat,  ashamed  and  dignified,  holding  his  silk  hat 
in  his  hand,  in  hesitation.  The  sergeant  made  him 
sit  down  opposite  the  blue  table  on  the  other  side 
of  the  balustrade.  She  kept  her  eyes  upon  the 
funereal  gloom  of  the  doorway,  waiting  for  the 
turning  of  the  door  handle. 

All  of  a  sudden,  the  dark  space  is  illuminated; 
it  opens,  letting  in  the  sunlight  like  a  fiery 


250 

sword,  as  a  man  is  brought  in  between  two 
policemen. 

Marie  stood  up,  resting  one  knee  on  the  bench, 
only  the  upper  part  of  her  face  and  her  felt  hat, 
from  which  she  had  removed  the  red  feathers, 
were  visible  above  the  wooden  partition.  Per- 
haps Antoine  would  recognize  her  thus.  He  ad- 
vanced with  bent  head,  a  frail  figure  in  his  undress 
uniform.  Marie  thought  he  looked  shrunken, 
narrower  in  the  shoulders,  like  a  being  of  another 
species  than  his  judges.  As  he  came  in,  the  offi- 
cers watched  him  frowning  and  contemptuous,  un- 
til he  reached  the  cage-like  dock  and  sat  down.  A 
slight  stir  passed  among  them,  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible sign  of  intelligence.  "The  Madiot  case, 
the  most  serious  charge  to-day — a  bad  lot." 

Antoine  kept  his  head  bent,  absorbed  in  thought. 
He  seemed  to  have  no  curiosity  with  regard  to  his 
judges,  the  public,  if  any  were  present,  or  the 
room  into  which  he  had  been  brought. 

" Stand  up!"  said  the  Colonel. 

His  voice  was  rough  and  thick.  He  was  a  tall, 
stout  man,  tightly  buttoned  in  his  tunic,  with  a 
ruddy  complexion,  blue  eyes,  and  a  heavy,  gray 
moustache.  He  was  one  of  those  habitual  judges 
who  never  have  any  doubt  about  the  guilt  of  the 
prisoners  brought  before  them.  He  knew  that  the 
cases  were  carefully  prepared.  He  could  have 
recited  the  military  code  by  heart.  He  classified 
the  accused  at  a  glance,  according  to  their  tem- 
perament: there  were  the  cunning  prisoner,  the 
liar,  and  the  threatener.  If  any  one  of  them  tried 
to  argue,  he  soon  forced  him  to  contradict  himself. 


REDEMPTION  251 

"Your  name  is  Antoine  Jules  Madiot,  born  at 
Nantes,  a  working  mechanic,  at  present  enrolled 
under  the  flag  of  the  93rd  Regiment  of  Infantry, 
in  garrison  at  Roche-sur-Yone?"  he  asked,  in  the 
same  tone  as  before. 

He  had  scarcely  finished  speaking  when  every 
one  present  looked  up  with  a  start  of  surprise. 
Antoine  Madiot  had  raised  his  eyes;  he  was  no 
longer  the  same  man.  Officers  and  soldiers  gave 
a  start  of  interest,  like  that  which  runs  through 
the  crowd  when  the  torril  is  thrown  open  and  the 
bull  dashes  out,  strong  and  ready  for  the  fray. 
His  hard,  steely,  gray  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
Colonel  without  a  shadow  of  fear.  They  showed 
an  indomitable  will  and  a  pride  that  rough  voices, 
grand  uniforms,  and  certain  punishment  could  not 
shake.  The  life  and  audacity  in  those  eyes  were 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  boyish  figure  worn  out 
before  it  had  reached  maturity.  The  Breton  reap- 
peared once  more,  with  his  expression  of  dumb 
and  passive  violence.  No  one  could  read  what 
lay  behind  it.  Tears  might  flow  in  this  secret  soul, 
but  they  would  be  hidden  from  all  men  forever. 

He  answered,  firmly,  in  a  clear  voice,  "Yes, 
Colonel,  that  is  my  name." 

His  pale  lips  were  parted,  showing  his  white 
teeth;  his  eyelids  never  quivered.  The  officers 
thought:  "He  has  the  eyes  of  a  convict."  Marie 
had  but  one  thought:  "I  hope  he  will  not  recog- 
nize me;  it  would  shake  his  courage!" 

"You  have  a  bad  record.  Your  officers  regard 
you  as  unruly  and  obstinate.  Though  you  have 
only  been  in  the  regiment  since  last  November, 


252  REDEMPTION 

you  had  already  been  a  fortnight  in  the  guard- 
room, and  ten  days  under  arrest,  before  the  25tn 
of  January,  when  you  struck  two  of  your  superior 
officers — Sub-Lieutenant  Lemarie*  and  Corporal 
Magnier.  Tell  us  what  occurred." 

Antoine  stood  regarding  him  with  a  fixed  stare, 
and  answered  not  a  word. 

"You  will  not  speak?  Very  good,  then  the  wit- 
nesses will.  Sergeant,  bring  in  the  first  witness." 

The  first  witness  was  Corporal  Magnier,  a  wide- 
awake peasant,  well  fed,  and  satisfied  of  the  good 
opinion  of  his  superiors.  He  advanced,  saluted 
with  a  sweep  of  the  arm,  took  the  oath,  and  said : 
' '  I  had  gone  up  to  the  barrack  room  first  on  com- 
ing back  from  target  practice.  I  put  my  rifle  down 
on  my  bed  to  clean  it,  and  I  heard  some  one  be- 
hind me.  I  turned  round  and  saw  Private  Madiot, 
who  threw  down  his  rifle  behind  mine.  Then  I 
said:  'Take  your  rule  away,  this  isn't  your  room.' 
—'Yes,  it  is,7  says  he.  'No/  said  I,  'hurry  up 
and  clear  out,  your  room  is  on  the  next  floor.' 
As  he  wouldn't  obey  I  caught  him  by  the  shoul- 
ders; he  resisted,  but  I  was  shoving  him  along 
all  the  same,  and  it  made  a  row7.  Lieutenant 
Lemarie  was  on  the  stairs,  and  heard  it.  'What's 
all  this?  Madiot  again?'  He  had  hardly  got  the 
words  out  of  his  mouth,  Colonel,  when  Madiot 
rushed  at  both  of  us,  gave  him  two  kicks  in  the 
stomach  and  me  one  in  the  legs,  shouting,  'I  will 
soon  settle  him!'  The  men  seized  him,  and  that 
was  all." 

"Was  he  drunk?" 

"Almost,  Colonel;  he  had  been  drinking  on  the 


REDEMPTION  253 

exercise  ground,  and  he  cannot  stand  much 
liquor." 

"Are  these  the  facts,  Madiot?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  calm  voice. 

"For  whom  were  the  words,  'I  will  soon  settle 
him,'  intended — the  officer  or  the  corporal?" 

"For  the  officer,"  said  Magnier. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Certain:  he  was  looking  straight  at  him!" 

"Is  this  correct,  Madiot?" 

The  accused  nodded. 

"Very  good,  Corporal  Magnier,  sit  down." 

"Sergeant,  bring  in  Monsieur  Lemarie!" 

At  this  name,  which  meant  no  more  to  the 
judges  than  any  other,  two  poor  hearts  beat  fast, 
Marie's  and  Eloi  Madiot's.  Antoine  never  flinched. 
He  was  staring  now  at  the  red  curtain  over  the  win- 
dow before  him.  He  seemed  as  indifferent  to  this 
witness  as  to  the  first.  But  when  the  young  man 
in  his  elegant  civilian  dress,  his  gloves  crumpled 
in  his  left  hand,  advanced  before  the  tribunal, 
looking  rather  pale,  Antoine's  eyes  flashed  with 
rage  and  hatred.  Then  they  were  fixed  again 
upon  the  folds  of  the  red  curtain. 

The  examination  began  again,  the  same  at 
first,  with  more  detail  and  differently  worded 
answers;  but  presently  the  question  arose  as  to 
the  former  relations  between  Antoine  and  M. 
Lemarie.  Old  Eloi,  overcome  with  emotion,  had 
half  risen  from  his  chair,  bending  forward  to 
listen,  and  regarding  the  prisoner  with  terror, 
wondering  if  the  secret  would  fall  from  the  lips 
which  had  hitherto  been  so  silent. 


254  REDEMPTION 

"Do  you  think  the  attack  was  premeditated, 
Monsieur  Lemarie?" 

"No,  no,  Colonel,  I  think  not,  though  there  had 
been  some  unpleasantness  between  my  father  and 
the  prisoner's  family.  We  had  some  difficulty 
over  money  matters." 

"The  point  must  be  cleared  up.  Come  Madiot, 
had  you  any  grudge  against  Monsieur  Lemarie' 
here  present,  or  against  his  family?" 

"Yes,"  said  Antoine  in  a  loud  voice. 

"Explain  yourself  first,  Monsieur  Lemarie,  the 
accused  may  correct  you  if  necessary." 

Eloi  thought  "We  are  lost."  He  made  a  move- 
ment with  his  arm  to  call  Antoine's  attention,  hi 
order  to  implore  him  by  a  gesture  not  to  disclose 
the  past,  but  Antoine  never  lowered  his  eyes. 

"It  was  like  this,  Colonel.  My  father  had  re- 
fused to  give  a  pension  to  one  of  his  workmen, 
whom  I  see  yonder,"  he  pointed  to  Eloi,  "to 
which  he  was  not  legally  entitled,  on  account  of 
an  accident  due  to  his  own  carelessness.  This 
man  is  the  prisoner's  uncle.  Both  of  them  had 
insolently  demanded  the  pension  several  times. 
My  father  was  inflexible,  and  I  think  Antoine 
Madiot's  animosity  arises  from  this  cause  alone. 
I  must  add  that  directly  after  the  accident  my 
mother  sent  her  own  doctor  to  attend  the  invalid 
at  her  own  expense,  and  provided  all  the  neces- 
sary remedies.  I  must  also  tell  the  Court  that 
after  my  father's  death  she  immediately  granted 
the  prisoner's  uncle  a  pension  of  500  francs  a 
year." 

The  young  officers  at  each  end  of  the  table 


REDEMPTION  255 

shrugged  their  shoulders  as  much  as  to  say, 
"What  a  scoundrel  he  is,  this  Madiot!" 

"You  hear  this,  Madiot!  It  seems  that  your 
claim  against  the  Lemarie  family  was  open  to 
question,  nor  did  it  directly  concern  you.  While 
the  kindness  shown  to  your  uncle  is  undeniable. 
Do  you  admit  what  has  just  been  said?  Is  there 
anything  else  we  do  not  know?  Speak.  It  is 
greatly  to  your  interest  to  hide  nothing." 

Antoine  continued  staring  at  the  window,  and 
seemed  not  to  hear  the  question. 

The  President  repeated  it  twice.  Not  a  muscle 
of  the  soldier's  face  quivered.  He  seemed  to 
stand  outside  the  discussion.  The  whole  room 
hung  upon  his  silent  lips. 

The  minutes  slipped  by.  The  Colonel  bent 
from  right  to  left,  questioning  the  officers  with 
his  outspread  hands.  "It  is  impossible  to  make 
him  speak.  Have  I  said  enough?  Is  it  suffi- 
cient?" And  the  officers  bending  forward  in  their 
turn  answered,  "Evidently  the  man  has  no  ex- 
cuse. He  is  just  a  blackguard." 

The  advocate  intervened  and  said: 

"Monsieur  le  President,  since  the  prisoner  per- 
sists in  his  silence,  perhaps  the  workman  Eloi 
Madiot,  who  brought  him  up,  might  give  some 
useful  information." 

The  old  man  came  forward  and  stood  before 
the  tribunal.  His  face  at  that  moment  was  as 
white  as  his  hair.  He  stood  before  his  superiors 
whom  he  had  respected  all  his  life,  and  he  tried 
his  best  to  assume  the  bearing  of  an  old  soldier 
who  has  served  faithfully,  knows  how  to  address 


256  REDEMPTION 

his  officers,  and  has  nothing  to  fear.  But  his  arm 
trembled,  and  so  did  his  voice  as  he  said: 

"Eloi  Madiot,  sixty-six,  fourteen  years'  service, 
seven  campaigns,  twice  mentioned  in  despatches, 
thirty  years  workman  in  the  Lemarie  factory." 

"What  do  you  know?" 

He  turned  toward  Antoine,  and  their  eyes  met 
for  the  first  time.  Antoine's  were  still  hard,  un- 
moved, and  full  of  a  fierce  decision,  but  they 
seemed  to  say:  "It  lies  with  the  two  of  us,  Uncle 
Madiot,  to  save  the  old  mother's  honour!  I  have 
done  my  share,  it  is  your  turn  now!"  Eloi  under- 
stood him.  "To  save  Henriette,"  he  thought, 
then  he  turned  and  said : 

"I  know  nothing." 

There  was  some  laughter.  Two  or  three  of  the 
judges  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

"Tell  us  at  least  what  you  think  of  the  ac- 
cused," said  the  Colonel. 

Madiot  raised  his  hand  as  if  about  to  take  an 
oath,  glanced  at  the  poor  trooper  behind  the  grat- 
ing, and  said,  "The  lad  was  never  worth  much, 
Colonel,  but  he  has  a  good  heart." 

"Take  no  notice,  Monsieur  le  President,"  said 
the  advocate,  "the  witness  never  had  a  repu- 
tation for  intelligence  and  he  is  obviously  worn 
out." 

The  pitying  glances  cast  upon  Madiot,  as  he 
went  back  to  his  place,  showed  that  this  was  the 
general  opinion — a  poor  old  man  who  hardly 
knows  what  he  is  talking  about. 

The  case  was  closed.  The  sub-lieutenant  who 
acted  as  prosecutor  for  the  Government,  made 


REDEMPTION  257 

his  speech  without  vehemence,  almost  excusing 
himself  for  demanding  the  capital  sentence  in 
conformity  with  the  severity  of  the  military  law. 
But  the  crime  was  admitted,  the  violence  unde- 
niable, the  code  inflexible.  Antoine's  counsel 
waved  his  arms  in  the  air,  pleaded  the  irrespon- 
sibility of  drunkenness,  and  feeling  ill  at  ease  in 
the  midst  of  his  military  audience  which  barely 
tolerated  him  and  scarcely  heeded  his  words, 
stopped  short,  and  sat  down,  mopping  his  fore- 
head with  his  handkerchief. 

"The  case  is  closed,"  said  the  President. 
"The  Court  will  withdraw  to  consider  the  verdict." 

Antoine  hardly  seemed  to  notice  that  his 
judges  were  rising,  each  taking  up  his  cap  or  hel- 
met, glad  to  escape  from  this  unpleasant  duty  and 
disappearing  in  single  file  through  the  farthest 
door.  The  gendarmes  opened  the  grated  barrier, 
and  the  prisoner  obeyed  them  mechanically,  fol- 
lowing with  bent  head.  The  gray  eyes  were  seen 
no  more  staring  at  the  window  curtains. 

At  last  Marie  dared  to  rise.  She  made  her  way 
along  the  balustrade  to  the  spot  where  Eloi 
Madiot  leaned  against  the  other  side  of  the  wooden 
partition.  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  she  said 
humbly,  as  fearing  a  repulse : 

' '  Monsieur — Monsieur  Madiot ! ' ' 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  and  recognized 
Marie  from  having  seen  her  with  Henriette. 

"What  will  they  do  to  him,  Monsieur  Madiot? 
They  will  only  put  him  in  prison,  won't  they? 
They  cannot  want  to  kill  him." 

She  waited  in  vain  for  an  answer.    With  grow- 


258  REDEMPTION 

ing  terror  she  saw  the  old  man  turn  silently  away, 
and  bow  his  head. 

Was  it  possible?  They  would  condemn  him  to 
death?  M.  Madiot  thought  so.  That  young 
officer  with  the  face  like  a  girl,  that  other  with 
the  kind  eyes,  would  they  not  take  pity  on  a  lad 
of  twenty  who  was  drunk  at  the  time,  and  had 
not  even  hurt  this  Lemarie? 

Marie  bent  forward  leaning  against  the  balus- 
trade, still  waiting  for  a  word  of  hope.  Her  hands 
grew  cold.  She  did  not  hear  the  soldiers  on  guard 
forming  into  line.  Suddenly  the  sergeant's  words 
of  command  " Shoulder  arms!  Present  arms!" 
brought  her  back  to  the  immediate  reality.  She 
shuddered  to  the  deepest  fibre  of  her  heart  and 
of  her  poor  bewildered  brain.  The  rattle  of  the 
soldiers'  arms  upon  the  floor  sounded  behind  her. 
The  seven  officers  were  back  in  their  places,  and 
stood  with  cap  or  helmet  on  their  heads,  their 
left  hands  resting  on  their  sword  hilts.  She  tried 
to  read  the  sentence  in  their  eyes.  They  all  wore 
the  same  serious  expression,  calm  and  unaffected. 
The  Colonel  recited  certain  formulas,  quoted  cer- 
tain Articles,  and  then  said  clearly  with  terrible 
precision : 

"Upon  the  first  question  we  unanimously  find 
the  prisoner  guilty. 

"Upon  the  second  question  we  find  unanimously 
that  the  violence  was  committed  while  on  duty. 

"In  consequence,  the  Court  condemns  Antoine 
Jules  Madiot,  private  of  the  93rd  Regiment  of  In- 
fantry, to  the  penalty  of  death,  in  accordance  with 
Article  222  of  the  Military  Code  of  Justice." 


REDEMPTION  259 

A  cry  arose  from  the  audience,  a  short  piercing 
cry  of  anguish  dying  to  a  stifled  moan. 

The  judges  were  already  leaving  the  room. 
The  Colonel  stopped,  raised  his  eyebrows  inquir- 
ingly at  the  sergeant  on  guard,  rising  on  tiptoe 
to  look  over  the  balustrade. 

"A  woman  has  fallen  down,  Colonel,"  said  the 
sergeant. 

It  was  only  a  trivial  incident.  In  obedience  to 
a  sign  from  the  Colonel,  whose  gold  braid  was 
disappearing  into  the  shadow  of  the  corridor,  the 
sergeant  approached  Marie,  who  lay  upon  the 
ground  with  her  head  on  the  bench  in  a  dead 
faint,  and  had  her  carried  out  into  the  air. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


IT  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  Eloi  Madiot's 
home. 

For  hours  he  had  been  trying  to  console  Hen- 
riette,  whom  nothing  could  console.  They  sat 
beside  the  stove,  which  he  had  twice  refilled, 
close  together  in  the  heavy  atmosphere,  repeating 
the  same  phrases  over  and  over  again  without 
freeing  themselves  from  their  obsession  or  ex- 
hausting the  sorrow  they  expressed.  Henriette 
had  stopped  crying,  but  her  voice  had  the  weak 
high-pitched  tone  that  tells  of  some  broken  chord 
in  the  soul. 

"No,"  she  repeated,  "I  cannot  understand  you; 
we  see  things  in  a  different  light.  Why  do  you 
say  that  he  showed  good  feeling?  In  what? 
Because  he  did  not  defend  himself?  It  would 
have  been  better  if  he  had.  I  see  nothing  but 
shame  for  all  of  us.  Uncle  and  sister  of  a  con- 
demned criminal.  How  can  we  hold  up  our  heads 
again?  I  don't  know  if  I  shall  dare  go  back  to 
work ;  but  you  look  as  if  you  were  almost  pleased." 

"No,  my  dear,  I  could  not  say  that.  But  in- 
deed things  might  have  been  worse.  The  proof  is 
that  the  lieutenant  who  spoke  for  the  prosecution 
promised  to  try  and  get  him  off.  He  promised 
me  after  the  trial." 

"Will  he  succeed?    And  even  if  the  penalty  is 

260 


REDEMPTION  261 

commuted,  can't  you  see  that  the  shame  will  be 
just  as  great?  You  who  were  always  so  hon- 
ourable, Uncle!" 

"Ah!  but  you  were  not  there,  my  dear.  An- 
toine  was  very  brave,  I  assure  you;  he  showed  no 
fear.  He  never  tried  to  throw  the  blame  on 
others." 

"How  could  he?  How  could  he  possibly  when 
it  was  all  his  own  fault?" 

Eloi  said  no  more.  He  was  silent.  Once  more, 
in  this  most  serious  crisis  of  her  life,  Henriette 
thought  she  felt  the  gulf  of  mind  and  education 
between  them  which  had  made  their  home  intimacy 
vain.  No!  truly  Uncle  Madiot  did  not  suffer  as 
she  did.  He  was  getting  very  old  and  broken, 
too,  and  her  loneliness  was  great  though  there 
were  two  of  them. 

A  thought  shaped  itself  slowly  in  her  uncle's 
mind,  in  the  intervals  of  silence  while  the  stove 
roared  and  drew  in  the  chips  of  wood  that  flut- 
tered on  the  hearth.  He  could  not  leave  Henri- 
ette in  this  despair;  and  since  he,  a  poor  old  man 
of  few  words,  and  unable  to  speak  freely  for  so 
many  reasons,  could  not  console  her,  perhaps 
there  might  be  some  other  way,  a  very  good  one, 
almost  infallible. 

He  looked  at  Henriette  sunk  in  the  arm-chair 
he  had  drawn  up  for  her,  silent  now,  and  almost 
defiant.  "My  little  girl  is  ill,"  he  thought. 

"Give  me  your  hand,  child,"  he  said  aloud. 

Her  hands  were  hot  and  her  pulse  rapid. 

"You  are  feverish;  go  to  bed  and  try  and 
sleep,  do!  Try  not  to  think,  and  do  not  get 


262  REDEMPTION 

up  to-morrow  morning  until  I  knock  at  your 
door." 

"Why?" 

"Because — why,  because  you  need  rest  and  it 
is  very  late.  I  want  to  see  you  before  you  go  out 
to  work." 

"But  you  are  not  going  out,  are  you?" 

He  continued:  "Go  to  bed,  Henriette,  please 
do!  If  you  are  ill  to-morrow,  I  will  go  and  tell 
Madame  Cle"mence." 

"Tell  her!"  she  said,  rising.  "She  will  have 
heard  what  my  illness  really  is  from  my  com- 
panions!" 

She  bent  forward  to  kiss  him  as  she  spoke,  and 
when  she  had  left  the  room,  he  listened  for  a  time 
to  make  sure  that  she  had  gone  to  bed. 

When  all  was  silent  in  the  house,  and  he  could 
hear  nothing  but  the  wind  rattling  on  loose  slates 
here  and  there  on  the  roof,  the  old  man  took  the 
hairy  coat  he  used  to  wear  at  his  work,  his  iron- 
tipped  walking  stick  and  hat,  and  crept  out  of  the 
house. 

The  night  was  not  cold.  As  often  happens  at 
the  approach  of  spring,  a  warm  blue  mist  de- 
fended the  earth  from  the  violent  gusts  of  the 
higher  air.  The  first  clumps  of  primroses  began 
to  unfold  their  mossy  leaves  that  night. 

Hasten,  Uncle  Madiot,  your  little  girl  is  still 
sobbing  in  her  bed,  though  you  cannot  hear  her! 

He  passed  along  the  quays;  the  moon  was 
sinking  in  the  horizon  and  illumined  the  way; 
the  town  lay  asleep,  prostrate  with  the  fatigues  of 
the  day  before;  the  Loire  alone  was  alive  and 


REDEMPTION  263 

lifted  the  boats  as  it  flowed  past,  throwing  the 
dancing  shadows  of  the  masts  upon  the  pavements. 

The  old  soldier  could  not  walk  so  well  as  he  used 
to ;  he  was  hot,  and  he  had  to  stop  upon  the  bank 
near  the  station,  where  the  signal  lights  made  the 
solitude  less  oppressive. 

It  was  half-past  three  by  the  station  clock.  "I 
shall  be  at  the  cottage  at  Mauves  in  an  hour," 
thought  Madiot,  "  so  long  as  they  have  not  started 
for  their  fishing."  He  called  to  mind  the  image  of 
Etienne,  who  could  make  all  right.  Yes,  he  was 
a  man  of  decision,  capable  of  carrying  a  girl  off, 
even  against  her  parents'  will,  and  therefore  able 
to  despise  all  prejudices.  "I  know  them,  those  big 
fellows  of  the  Loire,  once  they  fall  in  love,  it  is  for 
good  and  all.  I  will  tell  him." 

Madiot  continued  on  his  way  along  the  Saint 
Felix  Canal,  then  along  the  Loire,  walking  in  the 
soft  wet  grass.  It  reminded  him  of  his  military 
marches  by  night  through  lands  he  would  never 
see  again.  He  slackened  his  pace  now  and  then  to 
see  if  the  valley  showed  pale  in  the  east,  but  it 
did  not.  And  the  thought  of  Henriette  urged  him 
forward  faster,  toward  the  little  cottage  where  the 
winds  and  waters  lulled  to  sleep  the  humble  in- 
mates all  the  year  round. 

At  last  he  saw  it  in  the  distance,  the  little  house 
of  tarred  planks.  A  ray  of  light  showed  through 
the  door.  He  knocked  hard  with  his  fist  three 
times. 

"Open  the  door.    It  is  I,  old  Madiot." 

Almost  immediately  a  hand  shot  back  the 
bolt. 


264  REDEMPTION 

"I  was  mending  my  nets,"  said  old  Loutrel, 
calmly;  "what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Near  the  candle,  which  was  placed  on  a  chair, 
the  two  men  stood  and  talked,  separated  by  the 
brown  shadow  of  the  net  which  Loutrel  was 
mending.  They  spoke  in  low  tones  because  of 
Madame  Loutrel,  who  was  still  sleeping  behind 
the  serge  curtains.  Madiot  told  the  other  of  the 
court-martial,  and  the  despair  of  Henriette,  and 
his  idea  of  calling  Etienne  to  the  rescue. 

The  fisherman  finished  the  net  and  said,  as  he 
tested  the  last  knot  with  his  little  finger: 

"As  I  have  told  you,  Monsieur  Madiot,  my  son 
is  out  already — he  has  gone  shooting  so  as  to  be 
able  to  buy  some  cordage  which  he  needs  for  his 
new  boat.  I  will  willingly  take  you  to  him." 

"Then  let  us  start,"  said  Madiot,  "for  my  little 
girl  is  crying." 

"Very  well,  but  I  cannot  say  what  my  son's 
answer  will  be — whether  he  will  go  with  you  or 
not.  I  do  not  force  my  lads;  I  leave  their  hearts 
as  Nature  made  them." 

They  walked  a  few  steps  from  the  cottage  and 
entered  a  flat  boat.  Loutrel  set  up  a  pole  with 
a  square  of  old  sail-cloth,  and  the  rising  wind 
swept  them  against  the  stream  into  the  night, 
which  was  already  streaked  with  the  pale  light  of 
dawn.  The  moon  seemed  to  bend  forward  like  a 
watcher  who  is  tired  out. 

"Henriette!  Henriette!"  the  old  man  mut- 
tered, below  his  breath. 

That  name  to  him  was  food  for  endless  thought. 
Birds  were  calling  to  the  day.  It  was  the  sports- 


REDEMPTION  265 

man's  hour  when  the  light  hesitates,  and  the 
curlew,  sea-gull,  snipe  and  lapwing  stretch  their 
cramped  wings,  fly  along  the  sands,  greet  and 
cheer  each  other  for  the  start,  and  take  their 
flight  in  light-winged  bands. 

Loutrel  and  Madiot  went  a  good  way  up  the 
stream  toward  a  clump  of  poplars,  steered  for  the 
point  of  the  island,  and  the  boat  rose  half  out  of 
the  water  as  they  touched  the  spur  of  land,  sharp- 
ened by  the  current.  The  fisherman  whistled. 
A  man  came  out  of  the  shadow  of  a  willow  which 
was  already  in  bud.  It  was  Etienne;  he  had  a 
dozen  lapwings  slung  round  his  waist. 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  when  he  saw  Madiot, 
and  came  down  to  the  open  beach. 

Eloi  twirled  his  moustache,  his  face  half  hidden 
by  the  turned-up  collar  of  his  coat,  and  he  watched 
approach  this  young  man  whom  he  admired  so 
much. 

"Antoine  is  condemned,"  he  said. 

"Too  bad,  Monsieur  Madiot." 

"To  death!" 

The  young  man  raised  his  soft  felt  hat,  as  he 
would  have  done  before  Antoine's  coffin. 

"No,"  said  Madiot,  "you  are  wrong,  Etienne. 
It  seems  they  may  let  him  off.  We  can  do  noth- 
ing to  help  him.  But  there  is  some  one  else,  who 
is  grieving." 

The  young  man's  fine  manly  face  was  turned 
toward  the  waving  branches  of  the  poplars.  The 
pale  dawn  was  beginning  to  show  between  their 
trunks. 

"She  has  made  herself  ill  with  crying." 


266  REDEMPTION 

"Oh!"  cried  Etienne;  and  there  was  such  sor- 
row in  his  voice  that  Madiot  replied : 

' '  I  think  she  is  not  so  ill,  my  lad,  but  that  you 
could  console  her.  Come  with  me.  I  came  to 
fetch  you." 

"She  did  not  ask  for  me,  did  she?" 

"She  is  asleep,"  said  Madiot,  gently,  "but  I 
think  that  if  when  she  wakes,  the  child  could  be 
sure  you  are  not  changed  by  what  has  happened 
to  Antoine — that  you  still  care  for  her:  I  think 
she  would  be  more  consoled  than  with  me.  For 
it  does  not  change  you,  my  dear  Etienne,  that 
Antoine  has  turned  out  badly,  does  it?  You  still 
think  the  same  about  her?  " 

Joy  gleamed  in  Etienne 's  blue  eyes;  he  untied 
the  string  of  the  lapwings  and  threw  them  at  his 
father's  feet,  stretched  his  arm  toward  the  first 
gleam  of  day,  and  cried  out,  by  way  of  answer : 

"Jump  in,  Madiot,  I'll  take  the  oars!" 

He  had  much  less  hope  than  the  old  man.  but 
youth  was  in  him,  youth  that  so  little  sets  a-sing- 
ing. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


Two  hours  later  they  drove  their  boat  in  between 
the  schooners  lying  at  anchor,  and  landed  at  the 
foot  of  the  projecting  rock  on  which  the  house 
stood.  Etienne  was  still  in  his  knitted  jersey,  and 
Madiot  had  not  turned  down  the  collar  of  his 
rough  jacket.  They  mounted  the  stairs  in  silence: 
something  gripped  them  at  the  throat;  each  of 
them  was  fighting  against  his  fear,  knowing  that 
only  ten  steps,  five,  one  more,  separated  them 
from  the  unknown  fate  awaiting  them.  The  two 
men,  standing  at  the  opposite  extremes  of  life, 
Madiot  near  its  close,  Etienne  on  the  threshold, 
trembled,  uncertain  what  the  will  of  one  young 
girl  might  be.  Was  it  to  be  life  or  suffering  for 
them?  Would  she  say  "Stay"  or  "Leave  me  for- 
ever." When  they  neared  the  door  they  each  drew 
back  to  let  the  other  pass  in  first,  in  such  great 
dread  were  they  of  that  which  they  came  to  seek. 

Henriette  heard  them,  and  recognized  their 
voices.  She  was  in  her  black  every-day  dress, 
ready  to  start  for  work.  The  little  remnant  of 
colour  that  was  in  her  cheeks  faded  away.  But 
she,  the  woman,  she  also  had  courage  to  face  her 
fate.  She  went  straight  to  the  door  which  sepa- 
rated the  two  rooms,  and  seeing  Etienne,  said: 
"Come  in." 

Etienne  went  in,  Uncle  Madiot  hiding,  trembling 

267 


268 

in  the  background,  to  let  him  pass.  Henriette 
had  retreated  to  the  fireplace,  and  her  hair,  escap- 
ing all  round  from  under  the  brim  of  her  hat,  shone 
in  the  glass  above  it  like  a  large  golden  flower. 
She  had  understood  at  once  what  Uncle  Eloi  had 
done,  and  the  proof  of  love  which  Etienne  was 
giving  her.  And  there  they  stood,  those  two, 
Etienne  and  Henriette.  Etienne  a  few  paces 
from  her,  near  a  small  table.  His  eyes,  accustomed 
to  the  deep  waters,  were  interrogating  those  clear 
eyes  of  hers,  through  which,  at  this  moment,  her 
soul  seemed  speaking.  He  had  never  before  been 
so  keenly  aware  of  Henriette's  friendship  for  him, 
now  touched  with  such  tender  emotion  that  it 
almost  resembled  love;  but  yet,  it  was  not  love, 
for  he  could  read  other  things  in  those  dear  eyes: 
signs  of  a  fresh  resolution,  of  recent  suffering  and 
struggle,  out  of  which  she  had  come  victorious,  but 
with  a  trembling  remembrance  of  what  it  had 
cost  her.  And  so,  looking  at  her,  he  knew  all  that 
she  had  to  tell  him,  and  no  words  could  have  ex- 
pressed such  affection,  such  regret,  such  pity. 
And  he,  loving  her,  understood. 

Uncle  Madiot,  who  was  listening,  not  catching  any 
sound,  thought  they  must  be  speaking  in  low  voices. 

Etienne  felt  the  tears  rising,  but  still  he  would 
not  take  his  eyes  from  her,  and  to  prevent  them 
falling,  he  forced  himself  to  speak : 

"You  see  neither  your  brother  nor  anything  in 
the  world  would  have  kept  me  from  you." 

And  she  who,  with  her  loving  lips,  knew  so  well 
how  to  console,  said  gently: 

"My  big  Etienne,  I  shall  love  you  as  long  as  I 


REDEMPTION  269 

live.  As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  remember  with  grat- 
itude that  which  you  have  done.  I  have  had  no 
brother  but  you,  no  friend  but  you." 

And  then,  seeing  the  tears  running  down  his 
tanned  cheeks,  she  continued: 

"If  my  heart  were  my  own,  I  would  give  it  to 
you.  But  God  has  taken  it  for  His  poor.  Forget 
me." 

Then,  hardly  knowing  what  he  was  doing, 
Etienne  held  out  his  arms  to  her.  In  his  great 
trouble,  he  was  not  afraid  to  call  to  the  woman, 
who  was  never  to  be  his.  And  she  heard.  Hen- 
riette,  her  head  already  bent  to  receive  his  caress, 
threw  herself  into  his  open  arms.  He  felt  the 
pretty  fair  head  upon  his  shoulder.  He  clasped 
his  arms  round  her,  and  held  her  to  his  breast  with 
all  his  strength.  For  one  short  moment  their 
hearts  beat  against  one  another.  Then  he  put  her 
gently  from  him,  gave  her  one  last  look,  and  left 
her. 

She  remained  standing  where  he  had  last  em- 
braced her,  still  bending  forward. 

Madiot,  who  had  been  watching  them,  was 
already  beginning  to  feel  more  cheerful.  But 
when  Etienne  passed  him,  and  he  saw  him  seize 
the  handle  of  the  staircase  door: 

"Stop  him,  Henriette,  he  is  going,  he  is  going!" 

She  did  not  move  until  Etienne  was  gone. 
As  soon  as  she  heard  the  latch  fall  behind  him, 
she  went  in  to  the  old  man  in  the  kitchen;  she 
took  him  by  his  two  hands  and  led  him  into  the 
beautiful  room,  which  was  her  own  domain,  and 
where  she  ruled  alone.  Still  holding  the  two 


270  REDEMPTION 

trembling  hands  which  clung  to  hers,  she  made 
him  sit  down,  and  then,  with  her  eyes  on  him, 
and  troubled  with  the  consciousness  of  her  own 
pain  and  that  which  she  was  going  to  cause 
another: 

" Uncle  Madiot,"  she  said,  "I  did  not  call 
Etienne  back,  because  I  have  a  secret." 

"And  what  is  that,  my  child?" 

"I  do  not  wish  to  marry." 

So  many  successive  shocks  seemed  to  have 
broken  the  strength  of  the  old  man.  He  put  up 
his  poor  tired  face,  which  had  become  just  a  mass 
of  wrinkles,  with  no  sign  of  life  about  it  but  the 
two  sad  eyes;  he  seemed  to  be  looking  about  him 
in  search  of  the  peace  of  former  days,  of  the  quiet 
home  where  they  had  been  so  happy,  of  the  merry 
Henriette  of  the  olden  time. 

"But,  child,"  he  said,  "since  he  wishes  it  so 
much?" 

"I  shall  never  marry." 

"Not  even  with  another  man?" 

"No,  Uncle." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  then?  Become  a 
nun?" 

"Perhaps." 

Then  he  rose  like  one  whose  youth  has  re- 
turned, and  standing  away  from  her,  looked  her 
up  and  down. 

"Ah!  ungrateful  girl!"  he  cried,  "she  was  not 
happy  then!" 

The  worn  aged  eyes  were  ablaze  with  all  that 
remained  to  him  of  his  energy,  his  anger,  his 
power  of  astonishment.  He  was  again  the  old 


REDEMPTION  271 

soldier  of  former  years.  He  began  striding  up 
and  down  the  whole  length  of  the  room,  from  the 
farther  wall  to  the  window,  through  which  the 
pale  morning  light  was  shining. 

"  Somebody  has  been  persuading  you,"  he 
growled.  "Yes — I  know — Ah!  the  misery  of 
life! — and  now  I  am  alone — my  child  is  leaving 
me — my  child  forsakes  me." 

Henriette  had  gone  back  to  the  fireplace,  and 
there  she  stood  drawn  up  to  her  full  height,  as 
full  of  fire  as  the  old  man,  but  more  mistress  of 
herself : 

"You  are  mistaken,"  she  said,  "no  one  has 
persuaded  me.  I  have  suffered,  that  is  all — not 
from  anything  you  have  done,  Uncle,  but  from 
that  which  you  had  no  power  to  prevent — the 
sight  of  so  many  miserable  beings  that  no  one 
tried  to  help.  Whenever  I  went  near  them,  do 
you  understand,  they  always  turned  and  ap- 
pealed to  me.  One  cannot  resist  a  call  like  that. 
And  you,  Uncle  Madiot,  are  the  only  relation  I 
have  in  this  world,  and  I  want  you  to  give  me  to 
the  poor,  who  are  in  need  of  me." 

She  followed  him  with  her  eyes.  He  paused 
a  moment,  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of 
bewilderment,  and  then  resumed  his  march,  the 
floor  resounding  beneath  his  strides. 

Was  he  thinking  of  what  she  was  telling  him? 
No;  he  knew  her  too  well  to  hope  to  turn  her 
from  any  resolution  she  had  come  to  after  mature 
reflection.  His  bitter  complaint  at  the  vision  of 
the  solitary  life  that  was  before  him  had  no  sooner 
passed  his  lips  than  another  thought  had  sud- 


272  REDEMPTION 

denly  arisen,  and  it  was  that  which  was  now  tort- 
uring him.  His  Henriette  was  lost  to  him.  His 
Henriette  would  never  marry.  "Well,  then," 
he  thought,  "I  shall  have  to  tell  her  everything. 
There  is  no  use  now  in  sparing  her  the  knowledge. 
My  duty  now  is  to  defend  Antoine's  character. 
I  cannot  let  her  go  on  thinking  all  her  life  that  a 
nephew  of  my  own  blood,  a  Madiot,  was  a  bad 
soldier,  disloyal  and  lawless.  His  was  not  the 
chief  fault.  He  was  brave  in  his  own  way.  He 
kept  silence  for  her  sake ;  it  was  for  her  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  condemned.  I  must  speak — there  is 
no  help  for  it — I  must  avenge  an  innocent  man!" 

For  the  second  time  he  paused  in  his  walk.  His 
whole  being  was  shaken  at  the  thought  of  the  ter- 
rible thing  he  had  to  tell.  He  looked  long  and  in- 
tently into  the  eyes  of  his  child,  who  had  yet  so 
many  tears  to  shed.  There  were  no  traces  now  of 
the  anger  he  had  displayed  a  short  while  since. 
As  he  faced  Henriette,  who  stood  pale  and  self- 
possessed,  he  was  the  old  man  again,  an  old  man 
sorrowfully  obeying  the  call  of  honour. 

He  seated  himself  again  in  the  arm-chair  he  had 
left. 

"Come  here,"  he  said,  "I  also  have  something 
to  say." 

When  he  had  her  close  to  him,  the  dear  fair 
head  leaning  toward  him  and  his  secret,  he  spoke 
again: 

"I  have  some  hard  things  to  break  to  you." 

She  shook  her  head  incredulously. 

"Even  harder,"  he  added,  "than  those  I  have 
heard  from  you." 


REDEMPTION  273 

Henriette  smiled  sadly. 

"Can  anything  be  hard  to  me  now,  Uncle, 
when  I  have  said  good-by  to  my  friend,  and  am 
leaving  you?" 

"Alas!  my  poor  little  one!  There  are  hard 
things  of  which  you  have  never  dreamt.  But  you 
shall  hear  all." 

Then,  in  a  low  voice,  and  very  tenderly,  in 
words  which  he  had  difficulty  in  uttering,  he  told 
her  of  the  past. 

Henriette  listened  motionless,  like  one  stupefied. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


HENRIETTE  was  absent  from  the  work  room  that 
day.  Uncle  Eloi  called  on  Madame  Clemence 
during  the  course  of  the  morning  and  made  her 
excuses. 

She  did  not  leave  the  house  at  all  until  toward 
six  o'clock,  when  it  was  beginning  to  grow  dark. 
Unconsciously  she  had  followed  Marie's  example, 
and  had  taken  the  two  roses  out  of  her  hat.  Avoid- 
ing the  quays,  and  the  shorter  cut  through  the 
busier  and  more  fashionable  quarters,  she  went 
up  the  Ermitage  road,  and  made  a  long  circuit 
which  brought  her  at  last  to  the  street  of  Saint 
Similieu.  She  had  been  conscious  of  but  one 
desire  since  Uncle  Madiot  had  told  her  all,  and 
that  was  to  see  Marie  again.  As  she  walked  along 
she  kept  on  repeating  to  herself,  her  lips  hardly 
moving  beneath  her  veil:  "Marie,  Marie,  you  who 
must  have  known  everything  and  yet  never  spoke ! 
I  thought  myself  above  you,  and  it  is  you  who 
have  shown  me  charity:  you  said  nothing! 
Marie,  what  worth  and  what  friendship  even  in 
your  shame!  Ah!  poor  girl!  we  may  now  sit 
and  weep  together!" 

She  went  in  under  the  porch  that  served  as  a 
frame  for  the  distant  view  of  the  cathedral  and 
its  adjacent  buildings,  which  could  be  seen  between 
the  walls  of  the  workmen's  city,  bathed  in  blue 

274 


REDEMPTION  275 

mist.  Turning  into  the  corridor  to  the  left,  she 
knocked  once,  and  then  a  second  time,  but  no 
answer  came. 

She  knocked  a  third  time,  and  then  a  woman 
called  out  from  the  landing  above: 

"What  is  it  you  want?" 

"Mademoiselle  Marie  Schwarz.    Is  she  out?" 

This  woman,  like  many  of  the  lower  class,  evi- 
dently objected  to  answering  any  one  whose  face 
was  invisible,  so  she  came  down  the  stairs,  her 
head  showing  above  the  side  rail.  She  was  the 
young  wife  of  a  workman,  faded-looking,  with  the 
remains  of  pink  in  her  dull-complexioned  face,  and 
her  hair,  which  was  the  colour  of  tow,  done  up  in 
an  untidy  knot. 

Seeing  a  well-dressed  young  woman,  she  guessed 
that  Henriette  was  one  of  Marie  Schwarz's  com- 
rades, and  said: 

"You  do  not  know,  then,  that  she  has  left  this 
place?" 

"How  long  ago?" 

"A  fortnight  at  least.  All  her  things  were  sold, 
as  you  will  see." 

She  drew  a  key  from  her  pocket  and  opened  the 
door.  Henriette  saw  at  a  glance,  without  going 
in,  that  the  room  was  as  empty  as  the  day  that 
Marie  took  it.  Curtains,  table,  looking-glass,  the 
two  water-colours  she  had  lent  her,  everything 
which  served  as  a  memento  of  their  friendship,  or 
rather  which  served  to  recall  Marie,  had  disap- 
peared. The  next  passing  lodger  would  find 
nothing  but  her  iron  bed,  her  two  chairs,  and  the 
whitewashed  walls. 


276  REDEMPTION 

The  woman,  guessing  by  the  colour  that  came 
into  Henrietta's  face  that  she  was  more  than  an 
ordinary  or  indifferent  friend,  said: 

"You  see,  she  found  it  very  hard  to  earn  her 
living.  She  turned  her  hand  to  anything  in  order 
to  buy  herself  bread  and  to  pay  her  lodging.  She 
made  shirts,  blouses,  and  knitted  garments,  and 
one  could  see  that  she  was  not  new  to  it.  She 
hardly  ever  went  out  of  doors.  I  used  to  go  in  to 
her  now  and  again  this  last  winter,  and  I  would 
see  her  hold  her  hands  over  the  candle,  like  that, 
to  try  and  warm  them.  I  could  not  help  saying 
to  her:  'The  man  you  went  away  with  must  be  a 
perfect  blackguard  not  to  send  you  something  to 
make  yourself  a  bit  of  fire.'  But  she  would  never 
open  her  lips  to  say  a  word  about  him.  It  seems 
he  was  a  soldier,  just  a  plain  soldier,  and  a  bad 
one  into  the  bargain,  for  it  was  only  the  other  day 
he  was  condemned." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know;  but  what  has  become  of 
her?" 

"Well,  you  know  what  she  was!  How  can  I 
tell  what  has  become  of  her?" 

The  woman  broke  off,  while  she  locked  the  door 
of  the  room.  "  I  don't  like  inventing  stories.  All 
I  know  of  her  is  that  for  two  months  she  has 
hardly  had  the  strength  to  go  on  working.  You 
see  she  fretted  herself  so,  and  then  the  want  of 
proper  food  and  the  cough  undermined  her  health. 
She  could  not  pay  her  rent,  and  so,  good-evening. 
Her  knickknacks  were  soon  sold  off.  That  is  a 
fortnight  ago,  as  I  told  you." 

"But  she  herself,  Marie  Schwarz?" 


REDEMPTION  277 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  have  never  seen  her  since. 
Some  of  the  neighbours  have  met  her.  She  must 
have  got  a  lodging  for  the  night,  in  the  same  way 
others  do.  Yesterday,  however,  some  one  told 
me  that  she  had  returned  to  Paris.  To  think  of 
such  wretchedness!" 

She  went  up  the  stairs  again,  her  old  shoes 
clacking  against  them  at  every  step  she  took. 

Perhaps  she  was  afraid  she  had  said  too  much, 
or  some  regret  for  the  chance  lodger  stirred  within 
her,  for  she  called  down  from  the  landing : 

"She  was  not  a  bad  girl,  you  know;  but  she 
was  fond  of  pleasure;  she  was  young  and  foolish 
and  she  had  no  mother." 

From  the  little  gray-paper  book.  "Now  at  last 
I  am  yours,  you  poor  ones  of  the  earth.  There  is 
nothing  to  keep  me  from  you.  I  feel  absolved 
from  all  my  ties.  The  sole  pride  I  had,  in  believing 
myself  the  daughter  of  an  honest  family,  I  have 
no  further  right  to  keep.  I  can  no  longer  even 
look  back  with  pleasure  on  the  past  days  of  my 
childhood.  I  said  good-by  to  Etienne  before  I 
knew  of  all  these  things.  I  see  now  that  I  could 
not  have  married  him.  What  sort  of  a  wife  would 
he  have  had — he  who  talked  of  forgetting  my 
brother,  and  who,  to  love  me,  would  have  had  to 
forget  my  mother  also.  Believe  me,  my  friend, 
you  will  have  a  place  in  my  heart  forever.  She 
whom  you  will  some  day  choose  will  be  a  happy 
woman. 

"But  less  so  than  I.  That  happiness  should 
have  come  to  me  out  of  such  heartrending  griefs 


278  REDEMPTION 

is  a  mystery.  And  yet  I  am  conscious  of  a  light- 
ness of  heart,  and  of  having  escaped  from  myself. 
I  please  myself  with  the  thought  that  my  family 
will  be  restored.  I  am  coming  to  you — the  suf- 
fering, the  troubled,  the  disgraced.  The  Order 
I  have  chosen  to  enter  is  one  of  the  smallest.  I 
shall  have  the  care  of  those  who  cannot  pay  for 
themselves;  I  shall  look  after  the  house  when  the 
housekeeper  is  ill;  I  shall  wash  and  dress  the 
children  before  they  go  to  school;  I  shall  cut  up 
the  bread  for  the  soup;  I  shall  mend  all  the  old 
clothes;  perhaps  I  shall  do  millinery  again,  and 
trim  hats  and  caps  for  the  poor.  They  will  have 
no  difficulty  in  recognizing  me  as  one  of  their 
number,  for  I,  too,  have  struggled  to  earn  my 
living,  have  had  friends  who  betrayed  me,  a  di- 
vided family,  temptations  similar  to  theirs,  and 
I  am  the  sister  of  a  condemned  man,  and  the  off- 
spring of  sin.  I  shall  be  their  sister  in  every 
respect;  soon,  in  a  few  weeks'  time,  I  shall  be  with 
them.  I  have  promised  my  uncle  to  wait  a  while, 
so  that  he  may  accustom  himself  to  the  thought  of 
our  separation,  which  I  fear  is  hardly  possible. 
I  am  staying  on,  also,  for  the  sake  of  Madame 
Clemence,  who  has  to  find  some  one  to  take  my 
place.  It  is  a  great  trial  to  me  to  go  into  the 
work  room,  but  I  yielded  on  account  of  Uncle 
Madiot,  so  that  I  might  not  begin  a  life  that  is  to 
be  one  of  love  with  an  act  of  unkindness." 

The  following  morning  Henriette  returned  to 
work.  She  was  surprised  that  Antoine's  con- 
demnation, which  had  been  such  a  terrible  ordeal 


REDEMPTION  279 

to  her,  had  made  very  little  impression  on  her 
fellow-workers.  Judicial  sentences  make  little 
stir  among  the  lower  classes.  Those  who  were 
fond  of  Henriette  asked  her  if  it  was  true,  and 
expressed  their  pity  for  her.  The  others  all  knew 
of  far  worse  cases  in  their  own  families,  and  so 
said  nothing.  It  was  just  then  the  busiest  season 
of  the  year,  and  conversation  soon  turned  to 
other  matters. 

The  weeks  went  by  with  their  usual  sameness. 
Henriette  went  oftener  to  call  on  the  old  priest 
who  lived  under  the  shadow  of  St.  Anne's  Church. 
The  sun  began  to  shine  again.  The  days  grew 
longer. 

Fresh  green  blades  were  forcing  their  way  up- 
ward to  the  light,  and  the  earth  heaved  with 
Spring. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


THE  birth  of  Spring.  Life,  breathing  through  all 
things,  rose  like  an  exhalation  from  the  earth 
toward  the  languorous  sky.  The  grass  had  burst 
forth  on  all  sides  into  green  tufts.  Trees,  as  yet 
without  leaf,  had  at  least  their  buds;  and  the 
buds,  glistening  with  sap,  gleamed  like  blossoms. 
Men  felt  the  blood  beating  in  their  veins.  It  was 
the  time  when  older  breasts  are  moved  with  love, 
and  the  children  blow  through  their  straw  pipes. 
Lilacs  were  being  sold  about  the  streets.  The 
Loire  was  in  bloom. 

For  the  water,  too,  has  its  season  of  love.  It 
lay  now  shot  through  and  through  with  lights  in 
all  directions;  along  its  sides  ran  lanes  of  warm 
mauve,  which  were  the  reflection  of  nothing,  and 
might  have  been  taken  for  trails  of  drowned  irises 
borne  along  by  the  current.  From  afar,  round  the 
sandy  points,  came  a  ripple  of  light  laughter,  where 
the  golden  waves  broke  and  re-formed,  looking 
like  wreaths  of  jonquils  as  they  were  flung  up  from 
the  depths.  Broad  streets  of  foam,  like  fields  of 
snow,  vanished  at  a  touch.  Elsewhere,  the  eddies 
wound  their  silver  stems  to  the  slimy  bottoms  of 
the  hollows.  The  light  was  uninterrupted  by  any 
shadow.  All  the  mingled  splendours  had  made 
a  pathway  for  themselves,  and  chased  each  other 
to  the  sea. 

280 


REDEMPTION  281 

And  it  was  on  such  a  day  as  this  that  Etienne 
set  sail  from  Mauves  in  his  boat,  The  Henriette. 

The  father  and  mother,  and  the  three  children 
whom  the  mother  held  by  the  hand,  were  standing 
on  a  hillock  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  field,  the 
group  looking  like  a  small  dark  spot  in  the  midst 
of  the  wide  expanse  of  grass,  as  the  distance 
diminished  their  figures.  They  watched  the  sloop 
as  it  glided  down  the  river  toward  the  open  water. 
Their  son  and  their  fortune  were  both  committed 
to  the  hazard  of  the  sea.  The  sloop,  which  had 
cost  so  much  hard  work,  was  a  fine  vessel.  Its 
prow  was  cleaving  the  light — the  light  of  the  air, 
the  light  of  the  sea — one  could  hardly  have  dis- 
tinguished where  one  began  and  the  other  ended, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  quivering  garland  of  foam 
which  separated  before  it,  like  the  broken  half  of 
a  bride's  bouquet.  The  mast  creaked  with  pleas- 
ure under  the  straining  sail,  as  if  it  felt  again  the 
weight  of  its  leaves.  One  could  hear  its  cry  of 
youth  and  defiance.  Its  sharp  point  bent  and 
threw  out  backward  the  branch  of  green  laurel 
fastened  to  the  top.  The  hull  was  black,  marked 
out  with  a  red  line,  red  as  the  blood  from  wounds. 
Etienne's  six  friends — Jean,  Michel,  Cesaire,  Ma- 
thieu,  Pierre,  and  Guillaume — all  of  the  same  age 
and  all  children  of  the  Loire,  were  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  the  mainsail  and  on  the  poop;  they 
intended  to  remain  with  him  till  he  reached 
the  sea.  Etienne  himself  was  at  the  helm,  with 
bare  head,  and  clad  in  his  tightly  fitting  sailor's 
jersey.  Having  said  good-by  to  everything,  he 
would  not  look  back,  fearing  that  his  strength 


282  REDEMPTION 

might  fail  him,  but  kept  his  eyes  turned  sea- 
ward. 

"Good-by,  tall,  strong  Etienne,  good-by  to 
him  who  looked  after  the  nets  and  the  eel  traps  in 
the  hidden  channels  of  the  river;  good-by  to 
him  who  could  guide  his  boat  with  a  single  arm 
among  the  currents  and  the  swirling  waters  of 
winter,  the  industrious  workman,  the  bread- 
winner, the  pride  of  the  humble  homestead  at 
Mauves!  Good-by  to  him  whose  figure  it  was 
such  joy  to  watch  growing  larger  and  larger  as  he 
stood  at  the  back  of  his  boat,  bringing  in  the  fresh 
fish  on  his  return  from  the  islands,  and  calling  out, 
while  still  far  from  shore:  'Good  fish,  friends, 
good  fish!'  Good-by,  the  child,  good-by,  the 
brother,  good-by,  happiness!" 

The  sloop  was  already  making  its  way  along 
the  broader  sweep  of  the  river.  The  top,  main, 
and  staysails,  bathed  in  sunlight,  were  filling  with 
the  wind.  The  good  people  of  Trentemoult,  who 
were  experienced  sailors,  asked : 

"Whose  is  that?  Look  how  it's  rigged!  A  cap- 
ital boat!" 

It  sailed  past  the  schooners  and  brigs  lying  at 
anchor,  and  their  crews  had  also  something  to  say 
about  it : 

"It  can  only  be  a  yacht.  There  are  seven  men 
on  it,  and  that's  too  many  for  its  build." 

But  no,  it  was  just  a  plain  Loire  fisherman, 
whom  love  and  despair  were  driving  out  to  sea. 

As  they  passed  in  front  of  the  white  house,  the 
six  companions  lifted  their  hats.  Etienne  did 
not  stir;  he  did  not  ask,  "Is  she  there?"  Had 


REDEMPTION  283 

she  beckoned  to  him  at  that  moment  with  her 
white  hands,  he  would  still  have  gone  on  his 
way. 

And  Henriette  had  seen  him.  She  had  asked 
Madame  Clemence  to  give  her  leave  for  two  hours, 
and  had  then  gone  down  to  the  farther  end  of 
Chantenay,  from  which  point  she  could  see  far 
along  the  Loire.  She  hastened  along  the  footpath 
which  ran  beside  the  river,  so  as  to  get  a  good 
start  and  to  have  the  figure  of  her  friend  as  long 
as  possible  in  sight.  She  kept  on  looking  behind 
her  as  she  walked,  for  the  sloop  was  bearing 
quickly  down  the  stream  before  the  breeze.  The 
six  young  men  were  singing  as  they  sailed  along. 
She  could  hear  their  voices. 

It  was  impossible  either  for  them  or  for  Etienne 
to  recognize  the  slight  black  figure,  who  might  be 
any  working  girl  or  workman's  wife,  dimly  dis- 
cernible against  the  wide-spreading  landscape. 

In  another  minute  or  two  they  had  passed  her. 
She  seemed  to  feel  the  shadow  of  the  prow,  the 
shadow  of  the  mast  and  sail,  and  the  shadow  of 
Etienne  himself  fall  upon  her  across  the  blue  ex- 
panse. She  hastened  forward.  She  wanted  to 
see  him  again — the  man  who,  for  her  sake,  was 
sailing  away,  who  was  not  singing  with  the  others, 
but  standing  motionless  as  a  statue  next  the 
helm.  But  the  wind  was  rising.  The  prow  of  the 
vessel  was  beginning  to  rise  and  dip  as  it  met  the 
first  undulating  waves,  messengers  from  the  far-off 
sea,  which  was  advancing  to  claim  its  own.  The 
sail  bent  before  the  wind.  The  figures  of  the  men 
silhouetted  against  the  light  grew  smaller,  soon 


284  REDEMPTION 

they  appeared  only  a  confused  group  standing  on 
the  poop,  which  looked  no  wider  than  a  shaving 
of  wood.  The  laurel  branch,  floating  from  the 
masthead,  fluttered  like  a  hand  waving  farewell. 

And  then  everything  was  lost  to  sight,  vanish- 
ing in  light. 

Etienne  had  seen  nothing. 

Toward  evening  he  landed  his  six  friends  and 
took  on  board  the  crew  that  had  been  engaged  for 
some  time  past.  When  the  blue  night  sky  was 
alight  with  all  its  stars,  the  man  who  had  not  been 
loved,  the  man  who,  from  the  moment  he  left  the 
fields  of  Mauves  to  that  when  he  reached  the  cliffs 
of  Saint-Marc,  had  never  once  ceased  to  think  of 
Henriette,  set  his  helm  and  steered  for  the  high 
sea,  ready  to  plunge  into  the  open. 

That  same  evening,  as  the  sun  was  sinking, 
Henriette  went  to  the  old  priest  who  was  now  her 
adviser.  He  received  her  in  his  garden,  near  the 
old  cedar  tree  that  spread  its  branches  over  the 
La  Hautiere  road.  The  factory  hands  were  com- 
ing home  from  work,  and  the  dust  raised  by  their 
feet  fell  in  clouds  on  the  lilacs  and  privet,  the 
leaves  of  which  even  at  this  spring  season  were 
quite  gray.  The  abbe",  however,  did  not  trouble 
himself  about  that.  He  was  listening  to  Henri- 
ette, and  listening  to  the  passing  crowd,  and  in- 
wardly he  was  joining  the  fate  of  the  one  with  the 
sufferings  of  the  other.  One  of  his  most  cherished 
desires  seemed  on  the  eve  of  being  realized.  He 
was  bringing  his  poor  a  woman  of  virgin  soul, 
who  knew  what  life  was,  whose  heart  had  been 
enlarged  by  suffering,  and  who  was  safe  to  come 


REDEMPTION  285 

in  contact  with  the  evil  of  the  world  without  fear 
of  being  corrupted  by  it. 

"It  is  well  for  you,"  he  said,  "to  have  thus 
suffered.  The  heart  that  has  been  stricken  is 
more  open  to  the  sorrows  of  others.  If  you  are  to 
go  among  those  who  are  now  passing,  as  you  in- 
tend, my  child,  listen  to  the  advice  of  an  old  man, 
whose  only  regret  is  that  he  has  no  longer  strength 
to  spend  on  their  behalf. 

"There  is  no  need  to  go  searching  for  a  remedy 
for  the  evils  of  the  time.  The  remedy  already 
exists — it  is  the  gift  of  one's  self  to  those  who 
have  fallen  so  low  that  even  hope  fails  them. 
Open  wide  your  heart.  Love  them,  whatever 
their  sins;  forgive  them,  however  ignorant  they 
may  be.  They  do  not  understand. 

"There  is  less  kinship  among  the  poor  than 
formerly.  What  with  the  factory,  the  long  dis- 
tances, the  tavern,  and  the  drunkenness  that 
follows,  there  are  many  among  the  men  who 
hardly  know  their  children,  and  many  children 
who  have  ,both  father  and  mother  and  are  yet  or- 
phans. Mademoiselle  Henriette,  it  is  for  you  to 
become  a  mother  to  these  little  ones.  Bring  joy, 
bring  union  into  this  immense  separated  family. 
Do  not  speak  to  them  of  duty  before  they  have 
known  consolation.  Hold  out  your  arms  to  them 
that  they  may  know  what  comfort  is.  God  never 
reviles.  His  reproaches  spring  from  His  pity. 
He  forgave  the  sins  of  the  spirit:  and,  remember! 
more  often  still  He  forgave  those  of  the  heart  and 
the  flesh:  the  Magdalene,  the  Samaritan  woman, 
the  woman  taken  in  adultery,  and  many  others 


286  REDEMPTION 

I  feel  sure,  of  whom  we  have  no  record.  He  knew 
the  weakness  of  our  human  nature. 

"You  will  tremble  with  joy  at  the  happiness 
which  is  for  others  only.  You  will  know  the 
sweetness  of  commiserating  tears.  You  will  learn 
how  beautiful  life  can  be  when  it  is  no  longer  one's 
own.  Do  not  fear  to  come  in  contact  with  evil. 
Mix  freely  with  it.  Ah!  my  child,  only  those  know 
what  lies  on  the  reverse  side  of  the  evil  who  have 
taken  it  in  their  owrn  hands  and  turned  it  over. 
And  to  what  splendid  opportunities  it  gives  rise 
for  devotion,  for  sacrifice,  for  repentance,  for  ris- 
ing again,  for  efforts  which  atone  for  everything!" 

And,  as  Henriette  listened  to  him,  she  knew 
that  this  life  he  was  describing  to  her  was  to  be 
her  own ;  that  she  loved  the  poor  with  the  love  of 
one  about  to  be  betrothed  or  married,  a  love  that 
was  to  last  forever,  strong  to  bear  all  shame,  all 
contempt,  all  ingratitude.  She  smiled  at  all  the 
misery  of  the  world,  as  a  mother  who  runs  forward 
to  lift  up  her  weeping  child. 

When  back  again  in  her  room,  she  took  out  the 
little  gray-covered  book  and  wrote  hi  it  the  one 
line: 

"With  my  whole  soul!" 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 


SHE  waited  for  an  opportunity,  for  a  sign. 

On  the  15th  of  May  she  received  a  letter, 
clumsily  addressed  and  bearing  the  Paris  post- 
mark: "To  Mdlle.  Henriette  Madiot,  milliner, 
Rue  de  PErmitage,  about  half-way  up." 

Henriette  tore  open  the  envelope;  she  had 
recognized  the  handwriting.  "At  last!"  she  said. 

The  letter  was  short,  and  as  follows: 

"HENRIETTE, — I  feel  I  must  write  to  you,  and 
must  know  that  you  forgive  me.  I  have  not 
dared  to  do  so  before,  but  now  I  am  ill.  I  have 
been  through  great  trouble.  But  there  is  no  need 
to  tell  you  all  my  tale.  I  was  already  beginning  to 
cough  badly  when  I  reached  Paris.  It  was  im- 
possible for  me  to  take  any  care  of  myself.  By 
degrees  I  was  forced  to  give  up  work,  and  just 
when  I  thought  I  was  going  to  die  of  starvation 
a  friend  wrote  for  me  to  the  Sisters  of  Villepinte. 
I  have  been  here  now  a  week,  well  looked  after 
and  spoilt;  but  I  am  not  getting  any  better.  My 
chest  pains  me  so  that  I  feel  it  through  my  back. 
It  is  like  needles  running  into  me  continually. 
The  Sisters  tell  me  I  shall  get  well.  Life  is  not  so 
pleasant  that  I  cling  to  it  much.  If  you  saw  what 
I  look  like  now  you  would  not  recognize  me,  and  I 
am  changed,  too,  in  other  ways.  If  you  knew  how 

287 


288  REDEMPTION 

I  longed  to  see  you!  But  I  know  it  is  unreason- 
able of  me  to  wish  it,  and  not  even  possible.  I 
feel  that  it  would  do  me  good ;  but  I  shall  be  sat- 
isfied if  you  will  say  you  forgive  me.  Will  you 
let  me  kiss  you  once  more?  "MARIE" 

Henriette  sent  off  her  answer  that  same  morn- 
ing. As  she  was  taking  her  place  in  the  work 
room  that  day,  she  said: 

"You  remember  Marie  Schwarz?    She  is  ill." 

"She  suffered  with  her  chest,  did  she  not,  as  I 
do?"  replied  Mademoiselle  Irma.  "Those  who 
get  into  low  water  always  fall  ill  of  it,  and  some- 
times those  who  are  not  so  unfortunate." 

A  shadow  of  anguish  passed  across  the  eyes  of 
one  or  two  of  the  girls  at  these  words.  Mademoi- 
selle Anne,  who  had  hollows  in  her  pink  cheeks, 
remarked: 

"And  yet  she  was  a  strongly  made  girl!" 

Reine  added,  in  a  low  voice: 

"I  was  very  fond  of  her.  At  times  she  was  so 
cheerful." 

No  more  was  said,  and  the  talk  turned  to  other 
matters.  Outside  the  sun  was  shining  brightly. 
Through  the  top  panes  of  the  window  could  be 
seen  the  blue-  sky  and  the  top  of  the  poplar  tree, 
which  sparkled  so  in  the  sun's  rays  that  it  looked 
like  the  silver-tipped  aigrette  which  Mademoiselle 
Mathilde  was  just  then  fixing  in  position  on  a 
straw  hat. 

Ten  days  later  there  came  another  letter. 

"I  am  better,  Henriette.  I  know  you  will  be 
glad  to  hear  this.  No  sound  reaches  me  here  from 


REDEMPTION  289 

my  large  noisy  Paris,  and  the  air  is  good.  They 
bring  me  a  bowl  of  warm  milk  every  morning  and 
I  fall  to  sleep  after  I  have  drunk  it.  I  think  it 
must  be  the  strong  air  which  makes  me  sleep 
from  nine  o'clock  at  night  till  seven  in  the  morn- 
ing. Just  think  of  me  being  able  to  walk  in 
the  beautiful  park  here!  Some  one  always  goes 
with  me,  it  is  true,  as  I  am  not  yet  very  strong. 
There  are  green  lawns  and  cows,  and  chestnut 
trees  under  which  I  sit,  and  when  I  am  more 
equal  to  the  exertion  I  am  going  down  to  the 
lake,  which  lies  quite  at  the  bottom,  surrounded 
by  tall  trees.  I  meet  young  girls;  they  do  not 
know  me,  but  they  smile  at  me  out  of  kindness. 
So  you  see  I  am  really  better.  If  you  write  to  me 
again,  please  do  not  write  so  small;  it  tries  my 

"MARIE." 


Another  two  weeks  went  by.     One  morning, 
when  she  was  starting  a  little  later  than  usual  for 
work,  she  met  the  postman  coming  upstairs. 
"I  have  a  letter  for  you,  Mademoiselle  Madiot." 
"Ah!    So  much  the  better!    Give  it  me." 
"It  is  an  answer  from  Marie,"  she  thought. 
The  postman  gave  her  the  letter,  and  went  away. 
The  writing  was  not  Marie's.    It  was  long  and 
regular,  and  written  by  a  trained  hand.   Henriette 
gave  a  little  start  of  fear.    She  read  the  following 
words,  dated  from  Villepinte: 

"MADEMOISELLE,  —  Our  little  boarder,  Marie 
Schwarz,  has  had  a  relapse.  We  fear,  and  the 
doctor  fears,  that  she  will  not  get  over  it.  The 


290  REDEMPTION 

poor  child  has  but  one  dream — to  see  you  again. 
She  calls  for  you,  and  talks  of  you  whenever  she 
is  able  to  speak.  I  promised  to  send  you  her  mes- 
sage, and  she  has  just  asked  me  to  say,  'Tell  her 
that  I  shall  wait  to  die  until  I  see  her.'  If  it  is 
possible  for  you  to  come,  Mademoiselle,  come 
quickly.  "SISTER  MARIE  SYLVIE." 

Henriette  wept  all  along  the  way,  until  she 
reached  Madame  Clemence's  house.  Then  she 
wiped  her  eyes,  and  thrust  the  letter  inside  her 
dress.  In  answer  to  her  friends'  inquiries,  she 
only  said  that  she  was  not  well. 

All  day  long,  as  she  sat  over  her  work,  her 
thoughts  were  full  of  Marie. 

Shortly  before  closing  time  she  left  the  work 
room  to  go  and  speak  to  Madame  Clemence.  All 
the  girls  noticed  how  pale  and  agitated  she  looked 
on  her  return.  They  were  all  seated,  although 
most  of  them  had  left  off  Work.  One  or  two  were 
putting  a  final  touch  to  a  bow  of  ribbon. 

One  by  one  the  heads,  with  their  dark,  fair,  or 
chestnut-coloured  hair,  lit  up  by  some  straggling 
rays  of  the  glorious  June  sun,  turned  toward 
Henriette,  as  if  she  had  called  them  by  name. 
And  indeed  her  eyes  were  wandering  round  the 
two  green-covered  tables,  near  which  she  had 
spent  so  many  days  of  her  life.  She  was  trying  to 
fix  in  her  mind's  eye  the  image  of  those  young 
faces  and  figures,  that  she  was  never  to  see  again. 
In  thought  she  laid  mute  kisses  on  their  brows, 
their  laughing  and  tender  lips;  all  at  once,  old 
memories  revived  and  clung  about  them,  as  when 


REDEMPTION  291 

an  elder  sister,  on  the  eve  of  her  marriage,  looks 
round  on  the  sisters  from  whom  she  is  about  to 
part.  Had  she  loved  them  all?  What  did  that 
matter  at  this  last  hour?  They  had  shared  her 
days  of  humble  toil,  which  had  now  come  to  an 
end.  In  those  few  minutes  she  had  re-lived  her 
life  with  them,  and  had  said  to  each  the  good-by 
that  she  wished  without  response.  Then  master- 
ing her  overpowering  emotion: 

"Mesdemoiselles,"  she  said,  "I  have  received 
fresh  news  of  Marie.  She  has  become  worse." 

Then  all  the  young  faces,  sad,  gentle,  foolish  or 
love-stricken,  looked  up  with  the  same  expression 
of  pity: 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Irma,  "what  a  short  time  it 
has  taken." 

"She  is  my  age,"  said  Jeanne,  who  had  just 
turned  twenty. 

And  then  several  of  them  began  asking  at 
once: 

"Where  is  she?  Still  at  Villepinte?  Does  she 
suffer  much?  She  will  get  better,  will  she  not? 
Did  she  write  herself?" 

Henriette,  standing  near  the  door,  her  face  pale 
in  the  beautiful  sunlight,  answered  them  amid  her 
tears,  hardly  knowing  for  whom  she  was  weeping 
most,  those  she  was  leaving  or  the  one  who  was 
dying  down  there.  After  their  first  exclamations 
of  distress,  which  was  felt  equally  by  all  although 
expressed  in  different  words,  the  girls  fell  silent, 
as  often  happens  after  the  first  blow  has  been 
struck  and  while  sorrow  is  making  its  way  to  the 
very  heart  of  our  being.  It  was  broken  by  a  voice 


292  REDEMPTION 

close  to  Henriette,  Reine's  voice,  clear,  harmoni- 
ous, and  agitated,  saying: 

"If  you  would  be  willing,  Mesdemoiselles,  I 
have  thought  of  something  which  I  am  sure  would 
give  her  pleasure." 

The  apprentice  was  the  only  one  to  speak: 

"What  is  it?" 
'  The  others  looked  at  Reine,  who  continued : 

"Let  us  make  a  hat,  all  of  us  together,  a  pretty 
one,  and  send  it  her." 

"But  she  would  not  be  able  to  wear  it,"  put  in 
the  child  again. 

The  clear  voice  replied: 

"Perhaps  not,  but  she  will  say:  'Am  I  going  to 
get  well  then?  Do  they  think  I  am  going  to  get 
well?'  It  will  give  her  a  few  minutes'  pleasure. 
It  needs  so  little  to  cheer  one,  when  one  is  ill!" 

"That  is  true,"  said  Irma.  "I  am  ready;  it  is 
a  good  thought  of  yours,  Mademoiselle  Reine." 

"And  I  too,  and  I  too,"  exclaimed  all  the  girls. 

"Put  on  your  thimbles  again." 

"I  haven't  put  away  my  needles,  and  here  is 
my  thread." 

"It  had  better  be  a  round  straw  hat,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Or  a  pretty  little  felt?    Don't  you  think  so?" 

One  said  one  thing,  and  another,  another. 
Then  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  drew  out  her  purse 
and  threw  a  new  franc  on  the^table. 

"Here  is  my  contribution.  Who  will  give  the 
same?  " 

There  was  soon  a  little  white  heap  of  francs  and 
half-francs  on  the  green  cloth.  The  apprentice, 


REDEMPTION  293 

her  hair  more  dishevelled  than  ever,  put  out  her 
hand  with  two  sous  in  it,  and  said  blushing: 

"That  is  all  I  have." 

"Perhaps  Madame  Cle"mence  will  give  us  some- 
thing," said  one  of  the  girls. 

"I  will  go  and  ask  that  we  may  stay  overtime 
to-night,"  said  Henriette. 

The  permission  having  been  obtained,  they  all 
drew  their  stools  to  the  table,  and  elbow  to  elbow, 
each  eager  to  have  a  share  in  the  work,  began 
trimming  Marie's  hat.  With  their  bright  thim- 
bles on,  they  had  regained  some  of  their  ordinary 
carelessness  and  gayety.  Two  or  three  searched 
the  boxes  for  ribbons  and  feathers,  for  any  rem- 
nants that  were  out  of  fashion,  and  other  trim- 
mings. Several  hands  were  held  up  together. 

"Will  you  have  a  shot  ribbon,  Mademoiselle 
Henriette?  Here  is  one,  blue  and  yellow?  No? 
Well,  a  gray  wing?  This  is  a  pretty  one!  a  gull's 
wing,  I  think.  Look  here,  Mesdemoiselles.  And 
this  satin,  what  a  love!  Perhaps  you  are  right, 
the  red  would  go  best;  she  is  dark.  Poor  girl! 
Poor  Marie !  You  will  let  her  know  all  our  names, 
and  tell  her  there  have  been  changes  in  the  work 
room.  I  should  like  to  be  there  when  she  re- 
ceives the  box,  well  packed  up,  with  the  name 
of  the  house  on  it.  It  would  be  sad,  all  the 
same!" 

Henriette  had  left  Jeanne  and  Irma  to  finish 
Marie's  hat,  which  was  a  white  straw,  trimmed 
with  red  bows  and  a  peak  at  the  back,  and  very 
pale  roses,  just  seen  emerging  from  the  dull  green 
and  reddish-brown  moss  which  surrounded  them. 


294  REDEMPTION 

It  was  artistically  designed  to  suit  the  strong 
dark  beauty  of  the  girl  who  would  never  wear  the 
moss  roses  or  the  red  bows.  Three  pairs  of  scis- 
sors were  thrust  forward  whenever  a  thread 
wanted  cutting. 

These  children  sat,  full  of  youthful  alertness 
and  thought,  watching  the  two  at  work  upon  the 
masterpiece.  They  forgot  dinner  and  home  and 
fatigue  for  the  sake  of  giving  pleasure  to  Marie, 
whom  they  had  known  but  in  passing,  and  would 
never  see  again.  And  when  Irma  held  up  the 
finished  hat,  one  of  them  said : 

"I  am  sorry;  now  we  shall  leave  off  talking 
about  her!  How  are  we  going  to  send  it  to  her?" 

Henriette,  who  had  risen  with  the  others, 
replied : 

"I  will  see  that  she  has  it." 

Something  hi  the  tone  of  her  voice  as  she  said 
these  words  made  two  or  three  of  the  girls  turn 
and  look  at  her. 

Reine,  who  was  quick  of  instinct — Reine,  who 
loved  her,  went  up  to  Henriette  as  the  latter  was 
taking  her  hat  and  gray  boa  from  the  cupboard. 

"Henriette,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "you  are 
surely  not  going  to  leave  us?  You  are  not  going 
to  take  the  hat  to  her  yourself,  are  you?  I  have 
always  been  afraid  of  seeing  you  go  away!" 

"Go  away  where?" 

Reine  looked  up  with  her  sweet  eyes  and  said: 

"I  know— Go!" 

Henriette  could  not  answer  her.  The  other 
workers,  anxious  to  get  home,  had  already  left 
the  room.  She  drew  the  young  Breton  girl 


REDEMPTION  295 

toward  her,  and  leaned  her  fair  head  gently  down 
against  her  friend's  cheek. 

"I  love  you,  dearest,"  she  said;  "I  shall  never 
cease  to  love  you.  Now  run  home  quickly;  I  am 
sure  your  fiance  is  waiting  for  you." 

She  was  the  last  to  leave  the  empty  house ;  she 
went  slowly;  never  before  had  it  taken  her  so 
long  to  reach  the  street. 

Outside  a  storm  was  threatening.  Gigantic 
clouds  were  driving  from  the  west  across  the 
crystal  clearness  of  the  sky. 

Eloi  Madiot  and  Henriette  sat  up  late  into  the 
night  in  their  home  in  the  Rue  de  1'Ermitage.  In 
the  acuteness  of  their  mutual  suffering,  they  felt 
strengthened  by  the  consciousness  of  the  great 
love  they  bore  one  another. 

At  last  Madiot  spoke: 

"I  shall  travel  about  a  bit.  I  shall  see  my  little 
one  again." 

The  storm  was  rolling  down  over  the  hills,  and 
half  the  sky  was  now  black  with  clouds. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


IT  was  a  warm,  misty,  oppressive  afternoon  at 
the  Asylum  of  Villepinte. 

"My  sister,  Mademoiselle  Marie  Schwarz?" 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

"Is  she  still  alive?" 

"Yes,  but  very  ill." 

"Oh!    Let  me  go  to  her  at  once." 

Henriette  followed  the  nun  through  the  vast 
building,  so  white,  so  clean,  with  its  polished  wain- 
scotings  and  floors  and  staircases.  It  was  almost 
a  palace,  built  by  the  tenderest  of  pity  for  the 
worst  of  suffering,  for  women,  young  women, 
attacked  by  the  malady  that  spares  so  few. 
Everything  was  done  to  soften  the  last  hours  of 
the  dying  ones  who  came  within  its  shelter,  and 
to  offer  something  better  than  a  hospital,  with  its 
chill  monotony,  to  the  poor,  worn-out  women  who 
recovered  health  and  strength  beneath  its  roof. 
Pity  had  surrounded  them  with  light,  air,  and 
verdure,  and  added  a  little  luxury  to  please  the 
eye,  and  to  afford  company  during  the  long  hours. 

Henriette  passed  several  large  rooms,  contain- 
ing four  or  five  beds,  christened  with  the  names 
of  saints:  Saint-Denis,  Saint-Martin,  Saint-Stan- 
islas, Saint  Louis  de  Gonzague.  She  caught  sight 
of  beautiful  faces  ravaged  with  disease;  of  in- 
quisitive glances,  and  wet  eyes;  of  hair-nets  with 

296 


REDEMPTION  297 

blue  bows.  One  child  tried  to  follow  her  upstairs, 
but  had  to  stop  to  take  breath  after  the  third 
step,  holding  her  hand  to  her  chest. 

"We  are  not  going  too  quickly,  Mademoi- 
selle?" asked  the  nun. 

She  was  accustomed  to  being  followed  more 
slowly. 

Henriette  was  carrying  a  hat  box,  done  up  in 
paper,  with  the  name  upon  it  of  the  millinery 
establishment  at  Nantes. 

Mother  Marie-Sylvie,  who  was  conducting  her, 
paused  before  a  door  on  the  second  floor,  the 
Saint- Agnes  ward.  Henriette  began  to  tremble 
violently. 

The  mother,  with  her  hand  on  the  door,  looked 
back  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"She  is  here,"  and  then,  without  a  sound,  she 
glided  into  the  room  like  a  breath  of  air. 

The  ward  was  similar  to  the  others,  only  lighter 
if  anything.  Eight  white  beds  were  ranged  at 
right  angles  to  the  windows.  At  the  end  of  the 
room,  on  a  table  surrounded  with  flowers  and 
ornaments,  stood  a  figure  of  the  Madonna  of 
Lourdes.  The  blue  sash  gave  the  impression  of 
flying,  and  the  feet,  starred  with  a  golden  rose, 
seemed  hardly  to  touch  the  ground.  And  there, 
in  front  of  her,  Henriette  saw  her  she  had  come 
to  find. 

Marie  was  not  asleep;  she  was  free  from  pain; 
she  was  waiting,  as  she  had  promised.  Her  hands 
were  hidden.  The  head,  with  its  wavy  mass  of 
hair  on  either  side,  which  no  net  could  hold,  lay 
so  lightly  on  the  pillow  that  it  hardly  made  an 


298  REDEMPTION 

impression.  The  lips  were  the  same  red  lips  of 
other  days. 

Henriette  went  forward,  in  secret  terror  of 
heart,  as  she  saw  the  motionless  face  and  the  thin 
outline  of  the  body  under  the  white  sheets. 
Those  past  days,  those  days  of  exultant  youth, 
those  days  such  a  little  while  ago,  when  they  were 
running  in  the  field  of  Mauves!  But  when  she 
came  within  range  of  the  sick  woman's  eyes  she 
saw  a  light  come  into  the  face,  and  a  smile  from 
Marie  greeted  her. 

The  smile  seemed  to  rise  from  some  far  deep, 
whither  life  and  thought  had  fled;  there  was  a 
still,  radiant  sweetness  in  it,  of  which  life  knows 
nothing.  In  a  low  voice,  from  which  all  tone  had 
disappeared,  as  unearthly  as  the  smile,  she  mur- 
mured : 

"How  good  of  you  to  come!" 

Slowly*  and  with  an  effort,  she  turned  her  head 
a  little  toward  Henriette,  who  was  bending  over 
and  kissing  her. 

"How  beautiful  you  are!  For  me,  you  see  I 
am  at  peace.  God  has  forgotten;  God  knows 
nothing  more  about  it.  Henriette,  my  own  Hen- 
riette, tell  me  again  that  you  forgive!" 

"Yes,  my  beloved  one,  long  ago,  almost  from  the 
very  first,  when  I  knew  that  he  had  forsaken  you." 

The  eyes  drowned  in  shadow  moved  in  a  little 
circle  round  the  room,  taking  in  the  sister,  the 
Virgin,  Henriette,  the  bed. 

"I  am  not  forsaken  now." 

Then  a  childish  look  came  into  them. 

"What  is  that,  a  hat  shape?" 


REDEMPTION  299 

She  was  looking  at  the  hat  box,  and  recognized 
the  cover. 

"  Dearest,  all  our  friends  remember  you.  When 
they  knew  that  I  was  coming  to  see  you  they 
wanted  to  send  you  something,  and  so  they  made 
a  hat  for  you,  which  you  are  to  wear  when  you 
are  better.  Would  you  like  to  see  it?" 

For  the  first  time  a  tear  rolled  down  Marie's 
hollow  cheeks. 

" No,  do  not  undo  it!  It  is  of  no  use!  But  how 
good  of  them  to  do  it!  You  will  thank  them  for 
me.  You  are  going  back,  are  you  not?" 

"No." 

"Where  are  you  going,  then?" 

"Into  a  convent." 

Henriette  had  drawn  herself  up  a  little.  She 
saw  a  look  of  joy  rise  again  to  the  sufferer's  face; 
she  felt  herself  enfolded  in  a  last  flame  of  love,  of 
admiration,  of  intense  longing,  from  that  burning 
soul. 

"Ah!    Blessed  one!"  said  Marie. 

She  closed  her  eyes.  What  visions  floated 
through  her  mind?  For  the  last  time  she  saw 
again,  no  doubt,  the  vanished  days,  the  lost  op- 
portunities, the  sins  redeemed  by  suffering. 

She  lay  long  without  moving,  in  calm  contem- 
plation of  her  dream. 

When  she  returned  to  consciousness  Henriette 
was  kneeling  by  the  bed. 

She  looked  at  her  with  her  fast-fading  eyes, 
which  had  no  power  now  to  express  their  love, 
and  which  only  seemed  to  say: 

"Why  do  you  stay?    What  are  you  waiting 


300  REDEMPTION 

for?  I  am  tired.  We  have  said  all  we  wanted 
to." 

She  did  not  understand.  l 

But  Henriette  remained  kneeling,  her  eyes 
looking  into  those  of  her  sad  and  dying  sister. 

Then  Marie  understood  what  she  wanted.  It 
brought  a  look  of  mysterious  grandeur  into  her 
face.  Slowly  she  drew  her  right  arm  from  under 
the  clothes;  she  leaned  forward;  and  she,  the 
pardoned  sinner,  blessed  her  who  was  without  sin, 
and  traced  on  the  forehead  of  the  virgin  the  sign 
of  the  Cross  of  Redemption. 

THE  END 


A    000  051  200    4 


